Be Brave Little Angel
by Jedi's Pal
Summary: This is a prequel to our Puppies, Kittens and Gun Totin' Babies series, in which we hope to answer the question: What would have happened if Michael Westen had refused to follow his orders and abandon his one true love back in Ireland? On the run from the CIA and the PIRA, will our lovers be able to find a safe haven of their own?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **We are just borrowing these wonderful characters for a while, no copyright infringement is intended.

**A/N: **_This is a prequel to our __Puppies, Kittens & Gun Totin' Babies__ series, in which we hope to answer the question: What would have happened if Michael had refused to follow orders and abandon his beloved asset? This story will update weekly on Mondays at 6:00 PM EDT._

_The next chapter of __Life with Larry__ will be posted Thursday at 10:00 PM after #BurnerClub. This week's story tells the tale of Michael's first mission with his new partner, Larry Sizemore. _

_As always, much love and appreciation to all the Burner Girls out there who read, review, favorite and fellow our joint and individual efforts to keep __**Burn Notice**__ alive on the pages of fan fiction._

**()()()()()()()()()**

**BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL**

**Chapter One**

Clooney's was a small bar in the East Wall district of Dublin. Close to the ports, it was used almost exclusively by the local dock workers. On the odd occasion that a stranger wandered inside, they would be served with a pleasant smile and then outrageously over-charged for their drinks with the hope that they would move on to find a more reasonably priced establishment in which to spend their cash. However, if they didn't take the hint, Mr. Clooney would reach for his phone and shortly afterwards two or more of the hard men of Dublin would make an appearance and help the strangers on their way. For the small room on the upper floor of Clooney's bar was the unofficial headquarters of one of Dublin's premier criminal gangs.

"Yer gettin' inside through tha building next door. Tis a restaurant, so it'll be shut up by eleven and thar's nobody livin' in tha flat above it. So ya won't be disturbed."

Ryan O'Keefe was explaining his daring plan to break into and rob the Bank of Ireland on University Street, Belfast, Northern Ireland in the dead of night to his gang of thieves.

"I'll be monitoring tha police an' security forces radios... Declan, lad, I want ya up on tha roof. Ya'll be able ta keep watch up thar fer anythin' I miss..."

The man in question indicated his assent to his assignment.

"Fiona, darlin', d'ya have all ya need? We cannae be having half o' Belfast waking up when ya blow tha safe... Fi? …Fiona!" The small Irishman slammed the flat of his hand down on the table top, which was covered by diagrams and maps. "Fiona, whot tha hell, girl? Getcha head outta tha clouds an' in ta tha game, will ya?"

The petite redhead startled and nodded guiltily. "Am ready, Ryan, don' ya be worrying about me."

"Good girl. So, ya have whot ya need ta muffle tha blast?"

In truth, she had given the coming bank robbery very little thought. The young Irishwoman had other far more pressing things on her mind. Her lover, the man she truly believed was her soul-mate, would be leaving her soon. He thought she didn't know. But she was convinced that now, with the threat of the Real IRA destroying the chance for peace having been neutralized, Michael McBride would quietly disappear and Michael Westen would follow the orders of his British masters, pack his bags and be on his way to some other war zone in another part of the world.

"I know how ta blow a safe outta a wall. Are ya questioning me skills, cousin?" she snapped back at the man who, though only little taller and just a few years older than herself, was a rapidly rising star amongst the criminal elite on both sides of the Irish border.

"I wouldnae dare, darlin' girl... But ya feck up cuz yer ta busy day dreaming and thar'll be merry hell ta pay.. Ya get me, Fiona?"

Blue-green eyes flashed in anger, but her wrath was aimed inwards. She was letting her emotions get the better of her and that would not do. _If word got back to any of her brothers that she_ -

"When have I ever let ya down, Ryan?... Now if ya don't have anythin' more ta say, Am gonna get goin'…" She turned away, making for the door which would lead her to the stairs and down into the bar below.

"Fine, but be ready wit' yar little box o' tricks on Thursday night; thot vault will be full ta burstin' wit' all tha government pay due ta go out on Friday."

"I'll be ready. _Ya_ make sure we donnae have any more surprises, like thot army patrol waitin' fer us when we stepped outta tha Lisburn bank. If Michael had nae turned up -"

_She still woke up in cold sweats about how close she had come to spending a good many years locked up in a Northern Irish gaol for armed robbery. Pinned down by a patrol of soldiers who had heard the blast from her C-4 blowing a hole in the safe, she had called Sean, who she knew was in Belfast on his own business, and then McBride, who she had thought was still in Dublin. But it had been her lover who had arrived first, setting off bombs across the other side of the square opposite the bank, distracting the troops just long enough for her to slip away._

"I swear, thar'll be no patrols in tha area an' as long as ya remember ta cover tha blast, we'll be free an' clear and filthy rich."

"Such a beautiful sentiment, Ryan," she called over her shoulder. "Me and me bag o' tricks will meet ya under tha flyover Thursday at eight." With that, she ran lightly down the old wooden staircase, which creaked on every step she took, and out into the dark rain soaked night.

Taking her woolen hat from the pocket of her coat, she pulled it down low over her ears and forehead, wrapping her scarf about her neck. But even though the weather was bad enough to have the other pedestrians on the street walking swiftly to their destinations, Ms. Glenanne dawdled on her walk home, her mind still reeling from the news she had got earlier that morning.

_She had woken up late, which she had been doing a lot lately, to find a message written on a scrap of paper waiting for her on the small dining table in the living room. _

"_Had to go out. See you later."_

_It wasn't much, no indication of affection or where he had gone. But she had grown used to his ways. The note itself was a big improvement from when they had first begun to live together._

_With nothing else to do until her meeting in the afternoon, she had eaten a bowl of cereal swimming in milk and sugar before taking a long leisurely soak in the bath. It was only when she went to get dressed that she discovered her jeans, which she had last worn only a week ago, would no longer do up._

_Staring down at her favorite skinny jeans with the brass button straining to hold the waistband closed and her normally flat stomach bulging through the open zipper, she had begun to put all the little clues together. This wasn't the first time in recent weeks she had found items of clothing uncomfortably snug and her breasts had been feeling tender and were overflowing her bras. But until that moment, she had been fooling herself into thinking it was just because she'd developed a sudden craving for sugary treats – the realization had had her running back into the bathroom to throw up into the toilet bowl._

Before she was prepared, she was climbing the stairs which led up to her third floor flat. _How could she tell him?_ She sniffed. _How could she tell her mammy, or her brothers? They'd want… no, they would demand a marriage..._ Another horrifying thought hit her right then as her hand reached into her coat pocket for her door key. In all honesty, she barely knew Michael Westen. Oh, she knew his cover identity very well. _But how __much did she really know of the American spy he was in reality?_

_Would he be angry her, think she was trying to trap him? Would this bit of news end their relationship on the spot and leave her alone to face the wrath of her family and raise their child on her own?_ She bit her lip and cursed herself as weak when she noticed the hand that held the key was trembling. _She was a Glenanne, dammit!_

_As soon as she had digested the reality of her situation, she'd hurriedly found an outfit that at least stayed closed and had left the flat in a rush to travel north out of Dublin to the town of Drogheda. Confident that nobody who knew her or her family lived in the market town, she had visited the shopping center and, after purchasing a couple of pregnancy tests, had disappeared into the nearby toilets._

_It had to have been the longest three minutes of her life and, when the little plus sign which signified positive had slowly appeared, it had felt like the bottom had dropped out of her world. __Doing it a second time, clinging to the hope that it was all a terrible mistake, had gone even worse when the result was positive again! _

_She had then spent hours walking along the path beside the River Boyne, staring at the slow moving water, trying to come to terms with her new status as an unwed mother until she had no choice but to return to Dublin to make her meeting with her cousin and her other partners in crime. Until she decided what she was going to do about the bombshell which had just landed on her head, her life would have to continue as normal._

She turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door and immediately was hit by a welcoming wall of heat coming from the three bar electric fire. Walking inside, she closed the door and when she turned back, the love of her life was before her, pulling her rain soaked hat from her head and undoing the buttons of her coat.

"Dinner will be ready in an hour," he whispered softly in her ear, before kissing her cheek. "Ya need ta get warm, luv, yer freezin'." His lips touched the tip of her nose, kissing away a raindrop and then moved to her lips. "I'll run a bath fer ya..." He winked. "We have plenty o' time."

It was then she noticed the small square table which normally sat flush against the wall was now in the center of the room, covered with their one and only table cloth and laid out with a small vase of flowers and cutlery for two.

"Wha's all this fer?" Her heart leapt as, for one brief second, she wondered if he had somehow already guessed her news. But one look into his deep blue orbs told her he knew nothing of the startling discovery she had made.

"Nuttin', nuttin at all…" He smiled back at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way she always found adorable.

"Michael…" _She had to tell him, let him know the truth_. "We need -"

He cut her off with another kiss, this one leaving her in no doubt about where his mind was going, as his arms enveloped her in a tight embrace.

_Oh, she could lose herself forever in this man's embrace_. She felt her body responding to him, her hands reaching up to comb through his hair, to draw him closer still. _Why spoil this moment? There was every possibility he would be leaving her soon anyway. Why ruin what they had by speeding up the inevitable? _But suddenly, her conscience got the better of her_. She couldn't keep this from him!_

"Michael!" Placing the flat of her hands against his chest, she pushed him away.

_She had to tell him, the knowledge of the life growing inside of her was too big a secret to remain silent over._ She shook off the near overwhelming desire to possess her lover one more time before everything changed between them.

"Michael, I – we…"

But when she stared up at him, into his intense blue eyes, the words refused to come out.

"Fi, we can talk later, I promise." He looked at her longingly, his fingertips ghosting over her cheek and onto her throat. "I've missed ya today an' thar's always plenty o' time fer conversation."

His fingers were now trailing up and down the front of her jumper and her heart skipped a beat as he closed the distance between them. "I've cooked sommit special. I bought all tha ingredients fresh fram tha little grocers round tha corner an' put it all together meself... an' I know yer gonna be busy o'er tha next coupla days." His hand was now resting over her heart and she was no longer resisting his advances. "We have an hour... An hour ta have a bit o' fun."

_Fun would be nice and an hour wasn't that long_… Her resolved weaken as his lips brushed against hers, his tongue running enticingly along her gums while his fingers were edging under the hem of her top to reach the skin underneath.

"Fun is it yer after? Well, I'm all fer a bit of fun." She grinned up at him, her fingers slipping between the buttons of his plaid shirt. _An hour not thinking about the changes taking place in her body and what she was going to do about it felt really good after a day filled with anxiety._

_She would tell him after the meal. Yes, after the meal..._

The tiny plastic buttons which had held his shirt closed scattered about the room as, in one swift move, she ripped her lover's shirt open and jerked it half way down his arms before shoving him backwards against the bedroom door.

Throwing herself against his broad chest, she kissed him as if this was going to be their very last time together. Her hands roamed over his bare chest, following the contours of his muscles and onto the thin leather belt of his jeans. _She loved this man, every inch of him... mind, body and soul._

Seconds later, they crashed into the bedroom, staggering and half falling on their way across the room, her own turbulent desires being sent into overdrive as her dark haired leannán seemed intent on ravishing every inch of her body.

Clothing was torn away and tossed aside. The old bed frame creaked and groaned from the force with which he threw her down onto the mattress before descending upon her as if he too knew how important this moment was to her. They couldn't get close enough to one another, come together fast enough to satisfy their burning desire for each other and she wanted this moment to never end.

Afterwards, lying in her lover's embrace, with her head resting upon Michael's chest, his arms wrapped about her waist and one hand resting flat over her abdomen, Fiona fought to hold the growing dread at bay.

_Yer being a fool if ya think yar family will allow a marriage. They'll string ham up if it ever came out who he is, an' ya know damn well it will in tha end. He cannae stay, an' if ya leave, if ya follow ham, if he'll let ya follow ham, ya will never be able to come back home, ever._

"You okay?" His hand left her stomach and pushed back her hair from her face.

"Am fine, Michael..." She hid her splintering heart behind a bright smile. "But I think we should both get cleaned up before we eat... You go first." She all but pushed him out of the bed. _I'll tell ham, I will... But just nae yet_… Closing her eyes to conceal the building moisture of unshed tears, she failed to see the look of guilt in deep blue orbs of the man she loved.

Letting her head fall back against the pillow where only moments earlier Michael's head had lain, Fiona stared up at the off white of the ceiling and the cheap light shade above her head. She had been meaning to replace that monstrosity ever since they had moved in, but had kept putting it off as the excitement of working with the American spy had taken over her life.

Hearing the sound of the toilet flushing and then the whoosh of bath taps being turn on to full, Fiona sighed and rolled onto her side.

"Fi, dinner's gonna be another twenty minutes. I've gotta bath running fer ya." His voice came through the thin interior wall as if he was still in the room.

"Th- thanks," she called back as she reluctantly left their bed. "D'ya care to join me?" she added.

"Er – I – I gotta see about the sauce and put the vegetables on, so – er...thanks, but you go ahead relax and just enjoy your bath."

Hearing the hesitation in his tone, the cracks in her heart grew a little wider. _He was hiding something from her._ She half smiled. _Well, that made them even then_. Reaching the tall wooden wardrobe, she threw open the door and frowned at the row of clothes hanging inside. She needed something that she could still get into.

**()()()()()**

While Fiona eased herself down into the hot bath scented with her favorite bath salts, Michael was busy keeping watch on the various vegetables simmering on the hotplates while adding milk and butter to the potatoes he was preparing to mash.

He had done it again. He had answered her in his own voice rather than that of McBride. This was not good. The mission wasn't over until he received his travel papers and stepped onto the plane, which would carry him out of Ireland and onto wherever they decided he was needed next. He hoped they would make it somewhere faraway and filled with plenty of intrigue to take his mind off what he had been forced to leave behind.

"_I shouldn't have to tell you this, but as you're not thinking straight, let me remind you. Tonight, once the little lady is in dreamland, you pack up all your stuff, I mean every… single… thing… that could be traced to Michael McBride, and then you wait for my call. When you get it, you'll have half an hour to get to Dublin Airport. I'll be waiting for you there with all your travel documents. They'll be holding the flight for us. So, as soon as we take our seats, we'll be taking off."_

He filtered out the voice in his head and went back to trying to come up with some way of avoiding the _fait accompli_ he'd been handed by the intelligence agencies of both the US and UK.

If he refused to follow any more orders and leave Ireland as requested, MI-6 had made it clear they would inform the Taoiseach of Ireland that an American CIA agent was working without sanction within their borders. He would be outted and, not long after, the hell that he had been promised would rain down upon him and anybody associated with him.

"_Trust me. Being burned would be the least of your problems, Michael. Just think about the shit storm you'd be unleashing on everyone around you."_

Rumors were already circulating in Belfast that a secret agent had infiltrated the ranks of the Provisional IRA. How long would the PIRA let him live once somebody got hold of the name and a photograph of the disgraced spy hiding in their community?

But just because he had agreed to go didn't mean he had to like it or wasn't looking for some way out of his predicament – _There had to be some way he could stay_. He'd thought about approaching her brothers. Sean the hot head would probably kill him before he could explain, but Liam... Liam might listen to what he had to say.

The oldest brother and current head of the Glenanne clan was also the PIRA's most feared interrogator and enforcer. He undoubtedly had the connections to get him a "do not touch" order if the IRA executive council gave out such things, if he could be convinced to aid them.

However, the more Michael thought about it, the more he realized that the unpleasant truth was Liam would not risk his family's safety and standing by helping the enemy. If he was lucky, Fiona's oldest sibling would simply have Sean shoot him, but more than likely he would end his days on a butcher's hook begging for a bullet.

Letting out a long sigh, the troubled spy turned the heat to the lowest setting on the stove and reached over to the cabinet which stored the plates. He could hear the sounds of bath water emptying down the plughole, so knew he didn't have much longer to do what he had promised to.

Standing stiffly with his eyes closed, he dug into his jeans pocket and slowly brought out the small bottle he had been handed before leaving the Belfast safe house. _He just needed more time; there had to be a way._ Maybe later, he could contact her, ask her to join him in some foreign country. He opened his eyes and stared at brown-colored glass dropper bottle. _If he did what he was ordered to, the chances were if she ever saw him again, it would be to put a bullet in his head._

The bathroom door opened and he turned in time to see the auburn haired hell raiser who meant so much to him pass into the bedroom. "Donnae start wit' out me... I just need ta find some clothes."

"Take yar time." He gulped and swallowed down his sadness. _There was no more time._

Using a tea towel, he pulled the meat from the oven and added the sauce before placing a serving on each plate. Adding mangetout and mushrooms along with mashed potato, he bit down on his bottom lip and reluctantly untwisted the top off the bottle, squirting four drops of the clear liquid into the sauce covering his girlfriend's meal.

"See? I told ya I'd be quick."

He hadn't expected her to be _that fast_. With a jolt, he realized what he'd just done and what it meant for their relationship. It felt like his heart was shattering in his chest and all he wanted to do was rush forward and drag her back into the bedroom. _How could he possibly get through a meal talking about things that didn't matter any more?_

The smile came easily to his lips as his years of training took over. "Thot ya did, luv. Take a seat an' I'll bring it o'er." As for the rest of his feelings, he shoved them into a little box, sealed the lid and pushed them into the deepest part of his sub-conscious.

_His name was Michael Westen and he was a spy..._ The carefree Irishman with a shady past was dead. He had died the second that the first drop of sedative had fallen onto his beloved's plate.

**()()()()()**

Sitting at the table, with a plateful of food giving off an enticing aroma, facing the man she was convinced was going to be her one great love, Fiona's fragile resolve began to slip away. _Why tell him now? Why ruin a good meal?_ The knot growing in her stomach could be nerves or it could be that she hadn't eaten since breakfast. But either way, _wouldn't be better to tell him on a full stomach?_

"It looks delicious." She smiled at her lover and scooped up a forkful of mash, dripping with the thick sauce. "Tell me why I donnae let ya do tha cooking more often?"

"If I cooked all tha meals, this one wouldnae be special." He cut a piece of the beef and raised it to his lips. "Ya gonna eat up? I dinnae make dessert, but I got us a Banoffee pie fram thot fancy bakers ya like on Grafton street."

"Mmmm." The redhead's eyes widened at the thought of the sweet, sugary treat.

Lifting the fork to her lips, her hand began to tremble. _Why did he have to be so nice, tonight of all nights...? She couldn't do it_. She carefully placed the fork back on the plate, the mash untouched.

_How could she sit and make small talk with the man she had, on more than one occasion, trusted with her life and not tell him he was going to be a father?_ When she shoved the plate away from her and looked him in the eye, all her carefully thought out words dried up in her throat.

"Am pregnant!" Ms. Glenanne blurted out the news and then watched as all the color drained from her lover's already pale complexion. "I dunno how far along… but I – but I – I couldnae get inta me jeans this morning and – and have been- I'm sorry, Michael."

"Are you sure?" he demanded in a flat icy tone.

"I took tha test twice this morning, as soon as I realized the possibility."

"No chance of a false positive, I suppose?" His hands were curling into fists as he sought to keep control.

At her mute nod, he slammed his fists down onto the table so hard the plates jumped before flinging his chair back in his effort to get to his feet. A string of harsh American invectives poured from his lips. It was only Michael Westen who was pacing in front of her now. _Her Irish lover was gone_.

"Fiona, what the hell... what the hell are we going to do now?"

It was as she'd feared. The dark haired man before her was angry, blaming her for their predicament.

"I dinnae get this way on me own, ya know!" she shot back hotly.

The spy ran his hands through his hair and tried to pull himself together. Then Fiona saw something in his eyes she'd never seen before: _raw, naked __fear._ Suddenly her own fear and fury crashed together. She hadn't wanted to cry; she had no idea where the tears came from. But it was as if talking about what had happened opened a floodgate and overwhelmed her. She couldn't stop it.

Apparently, Michael was as stunned as she was by the sudden waterfall cascading down her face. He captured her wrist, pulled her on to her feet and into his arms. Holding her trembling form against his chest, he rained kisses down on the top of her head while the petite woman tried to contain the gulping sobs in his shirt.

"It'll be alright, I'll make it right. We have time." He held her tightly as if to stop her running away, while rocking gently side to side. "We -we... I just have to think of a way."

After what felt like an age, Fiona slowly drew away from his arms and sunk back down on to her chair. "I'm sorry, I dinnae... I can manage on me own if ya cannae -"

He dropped down on to his knees before her, clasping her hands in his and stared up into her tear filled eyes. "We'll work this out... Are you are absolutely sure that you're -?" the covert operative couldn't bring himself to say the word. "I thought you were – you know, you told me you had that taken care of. What happened—?"

Pulling a hand free, she wiped it over her eyes and sniffed. "I've been thinkin' o' nuttin else since I found out. It must've happened when we got back fram Amsterdam. I had thot cold I couldnae throw off. I took antibiotics..."

_She had accompanied him on an assignment to find out who was smuggling blood diamonds from the city and selling them to American diplomats, who should have known better. The job had been a success, but not until after they had both taken a dip in the_ _Prinsengracht_ _canal and spent a night hiding out in a mattress manufacturers' warehouse __on a very cold February in Amsterdam__._

She watched the way he pursed his lips and dropped his eyes to stare at the floor as he did the math. "You could be as much as—" His voice trailed off into silence.

"Whot d'ya want ta do?" Fiona had to ask even though she was dreading the answer. "If ya have ta go, I'll understand." The Irishwoman wasn't going to beg him to stay; she had already made a big enough fool of herself bursting into tears like a scared teenager.

"No!" He suddenly looked back up. "We'll find a way to make it work."

"Ya keep sayin' thot, Michael, but I tol' ya, I've been thinkin' o' nuttin' else all day and I cannae find a way." With a sigh, she reached for her plate, maneuvering it back in front of her, the delicious fragrance coming from the spices mixed into the red wine sauce reminding her she had barely eaten a thing all day. "Look, let's finish eating. Mabbe things will be clearer on a full stomach."

"Fi, don't!" She had the fork of mash half way to her lips when he snatched the utensil out of her hand and then grabbed her plate, carrying the lot into the kitchen.

"Michael?" She gave chase and could only watch as he scraped the food into the trash and then tossed the plate into the sink. "Michael, whot's got inta ya?"

"I -" he stammered, unsure what to say. She had caught him flat footed with news of his impending fatherhood and, in his present state, he was unable to come up with a suitable lie.

"Whot's this then?" And that was when she reached to pick up the brown glass dropper bottle that he'd only had time to drop into the trash, failing to hide it adequately when he'd served the meal.

"Don't!" the spy croaked. "Don't touch that!"

Seizing her wrist too tightly before she could grasp the vessel in the garbage bin that contained his detestable secret, which had been only partially covered by the meal he had disposed of a few seconds earlier, Mr. Westen pulled her out of the kitchen area.

"It's—it could- I'm sorry, Fiona…"

She glared in stunned silence as he released her, turning away from her. His hands raked over his face and then were tearing through his long black hair as he stalked about the small flat.

In the end, unable to take any more, she caught up to him and swung him round to face her.

"Michael, yer scaring me. Whot's goin' on! Whar did thot bottle come fram? Whot wa' in it?"

The spy drew in a ragged breath and let it out in a long shuddering sigh.

"It's a long story…"

"Well, ya keep tellin' me we have time, so let's hear _this_ _tall tale_."

It was the same thing the PIRA operative had said to him the night she'd discovered who he really was. The dark haired spy flopped down onto the couch before the fire and pulled Fiona down next to him. Turning to face her, he did his best to ignore the look of betrayal in her eyes.

"I gotta call late last night. It was a contact, a man I've used in the past... I'd used him to get closer to Sean when I first came to Ireland. He'd helped to sell my cover. I owed him, so I had to go."

Even after so long, he could see she still held on to a tiny bit of the anger she had felt over his initial treachery. "He called me, begging me for my help. He said he was being threatened... But when I got to the spot where I'd agreed to meet him... My MI-6 handler was there with a team." He remembered the scene vividly. "I thought they were going to throw me on a plane there and then."

_By the time he had realized he'd been targeted for a hostile extraction, it had been too late to back out and run. Surrounded by the MI6 version of a tactical team, he'd accepted the inevitable and surrendered without a fight._

"But, it was worse than that..." He tentatively reached out to stroke a hand over her cheek, hoping and praying she could see the sincerity in his eyes. "I've known for a while that we were running out of time, so I've been trying to talk to my CIA contacts, my old handler, my former boss, _anybody_ who would listen. I've been trying to get permission to bring you out with me."

"Ya wa' tryin' ta take me out with ya?" she gasped and took hold of his hand. The redhead knew her lover had been talking to his bosses, arranging for them to continue working together, but not this. "An' when wa' ya planning on tellin' me?

"Please, Fi, just listen," he pleaded. "You need to hear this... When I got to the safe house, they had brought in this guy I knew from Langley, a real heavy hitter. I tried to explain the situation to him. But he wouldn't listen to me."

_Striding back and forth in what was MI-6s version of a dungeon, he had been on tenterhooks waiting to find out exactly how bad things had gotten. If Chambers had washed his hands of him, that had to mean the matter had been kicked higher up the food chain._

_He had no idea exactly who he had expected to storm into the room, but his old training officer from Langley hadn't even made it on to list. Surprised or not, he had held his ground in the face of his former mentor's wrath as the older man had forced him to see the truth of his position._

"He told me what I wanted was impossible, that I had lost my mind and threatened to have me kicked out of the CIA if I continued to disobey orders."

"You shoulda told him to do it." She tried to smile, but the effort was too much. "It woulda solved at least one problem."

"Don't be like that." He reached for her other hand, knowing that he hadn't come to the worst part of his confession. "I tried to tell him about us, about how well we worked together, how much help you'd been to the mission. I had been hoping if _he_ was here, I could convince him to help us. But I know now the decision had already made and he was just there to make sure I did as I was told."

He gulped and swallowed down the memory of how Tom Card had torn down every one of his carefully crafted reasons as to why Fiona Glenanne was too valuable to be left behind to face being blackmailed into becoming an asset of MI6 at a later date or death at the hands of her countrymen.

_His former mentor had pulled up a chair and sat down next to him. "Look, I get it, I do, really. She's a nice looking girl. Passionate and – not what you're used to. But, away from here, it would never work. She would have to leave everything behind and never come back. Her family would disown her and it would all be for you. Are you ready for that level of commitment?"_

Looking into the tear-filled eyes of his lover, he found it hard to believe how easily he had caved in to the senior officer's wishes. He angrily swiped at his eyes with the back of one hand. _How could he have been such a bastard to even think of sleeping with and then drugging the woman he loved? But somehow Card had convinced him that doing exactly that was only way to save her life._

"So whot war ya told ta do, Michael?" Fiona asked flatly when he failed to continue with his tale.

"_What can I do?"_

"_Leave. You can save your career and her life by leaving without a word. This is what you're going to do. Here… you cook her a nice meal and give her this." He'd accepted the bottle of sedative without uttering a word. "Then you clean out that hovel you're living in. I'm going to arrange transport outta this hole for us both as soon as possible. __This is the only way this works, Michael, and you both keep breathing. __You're doin' the right thing…for both of you... I'm proud of you, son."_

"I was going to do the right thing," he admitted softly, his eyes straying guiltily to the bin where the sedative was slowly dripping out onto the yogurt cups and used teabags. "I was trying to save you."

"Save me? You wa' gonna dose me an' run off like a coward!" The Irish fury spat at him, snatching her hand away. "Ya' coulda killed our babby, d'ya know thot, ya bastid?" She lashed out, slapping him as hard as she could, leaving an imprint of her hand on his cheek, and leapt to her feet.

"I- didn't know. I'm sorry, Fi. How could I have known? Fiona, I'm sorry!" He chased after her before she could cross the room. "Look, we can't go to my people, not now. They'd think I was- it doesn't matter what they think." They wouldn't believe him until it was too late and maybe not then. "What about your family? What about Liam? If we explained everything to your brother, maybe he'd listen? We _were_ working together, carrying out the Executive Council's orders. We got the-"

"We whot, got the job done? Is thot whot ya think they'll say happened here?" She laughed out loud until she began to choke. "I helped a _SPY_, Michael! Not even _a Glenanne_ would forgive me for working with an American spy. I've betrayed me family." The hysterical laughter turned to sobbing. "We go ta Liam an' tell ham everythin' and he'll kill tha pair o' us." She fell against the table top.

Michael was at her side in an instant, easing her down onto the couch, cradling her slender, shaking body against his, whispering words of comfort and pressing tiny kisses into her damp hair, until the woman he loved began to calm down. Cupping her cheeks, he thumbed away a few stray tears and leaned in so they were nose to nose. "I'm not leaving ya, whot _ever_ happens. W're in this together."

She nodded and caressed his cheek, smiling softly. "Ya mean it? No more talk o' tha CIA, or spying? Can ya truly let thot go, let it be just ya an' me together?" She took one of his hands and held it over where their baby lay. "An' this one when he or she comes along? Tell me now, Michael."

Swallowing down his own fear at what they were about to do, his mind dragged up a memory of a story she had told him.

"I _will_ find us somewhere safe. I _will_ do whatever I have to, whatever that may be, to protect you both. Trust me." He stared into her eyes, giving her a glimpse of the side of himself he normally kept hidden away, the unstoppable sonuvabitch who had cut a bloody swath through Russia and the Eastern Bloc countries. The man he had been before being sent on a deep cover mission to Ireland.

"Ya, just have ta be brave little angel," The words softened his expression for only a moment before steely eyed determination returned to his expression. "While I do what I was trained to do."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **_ A big thank you to everybody who has read, reviewed, favorited or put this story on your alerts. Your support for this tale has been amazing and very much appreciated we hope you continue to enjoy reading of Michael's and Fiona's exploits as they try to out run the combined forces of the Glenanne family, the CIA and MI6, plus all the enemies both foreign and domestic they have both gathered in their short lives._

()()()()()()()()

**BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL**

**Chapter Two**

"Ya just have ta be brave, little angel." The lilt vanished and it was Michael Westen, American spy, who was staring back at her now in all deadly seriousness. "While I do what I was trained to do."

"Be brave, little angel?" Fiona repeated his words back to him, a frown forming at the code he had used, a code her father had made up to warn his young daughter of danger. "Ya expect me ta keep me head down an' pray while ya fight me battles fer me?.. D'ya think I'm thot weak now am carrying ya child thot I cannae pull me own weight?"

"No, I _know_ you're not weak," he argued back. Removing his hand from where she had placed it over her stomach, he captured hers and entwined their fingers. "_But_ if we're gonna do this, there's gonna be times when I need you to hang back. I can't be worrying about you when I should be concentrating on whoever's coming at us."

"An' I cannae stand back like some damsel in distress." He saw that stubborn streak he knew so well in her expression. At times, her classic Celtic pigheadedness had made him smile. But this was not one of those times. "Me mother held off an attack on me da's pharmacy when she wa' six months pregnant wit' Seamus. It's nae in me ta hide away."

Michael stared back at her puffy tear streaked face, seeing now the glow of pride in her blue-green eyes and he knew the Irishwoman was only thinking about the excitement and romance of being on the run with her lover instead of the hard reality of their situation.

_This was her mother's fault... _He had only met the tiny formidable clan matriarch a handful of times, but the woman's stories of bravery and adventure under fire were repeated so often that the love affair of Maeve and Patrick Glenanne had passed into family folklore.

The CIA's top flight covert operative let his sharp sight slip over her shoulder to the re-enforced front door. Once they stepped over the threshold and outside, there would be no turning back for either of them. He would be declared a rogue agent and she would be branded a traitor and it was no secret what the IRA did to those they perceived as traitors.

"Fi, _if_ we do this – _before_ we do this, I want you to be clear on what we're gonna be facing. The CIA, British Intelligence, and once – and once my people burn me, every single person I've pissed off on four continents will be coming after me and when they find out about you and our child, they will come after you too because they know how much it will..." He couldn't finish the sentence. The very thought of it had suddenly become all too real for him.

The petite woman gazed at the pallor of her dark haired lover as the words died on his lips.

"Are ya tryin' to scare me, Michael Westen? Cuz I tol' ya befer I donnae scare easily," she declared boldly. She was putting on a brave front, but the spy caught the slight waver in her lilting tone.

_Maybe he was finally getting through her naivete. She knew the dangers of living on the Emerald Isle, but there was a whole world of hurt out there she knew nothing about._

"I'm not _trying_ to scare you, _I'm trying_ to make sure you understand that it will _never_ be over. We'll be running for the rest of our lives - you're gonna lose everyone you care about, your family."

"We'll be together... We'll find somewhere." She squeezed his hand and tried to smile and he knew she didn't get the finality of his words. He'd seen it before when an asset had to be relocated for their own safety, or as part of a deal. Apart from the rare exception, they all believed that some day they would be able to go home or at least call their family or a lover.

"Look, I'll understand if you don't want to do this," Michael tried again. The last thing he wanted to do was wreck both their lives, only to end up with the woman he loved hating him because of all the things she had lost. "I could leave, I could send you money and maybe – maybe in a few years time we could meet up away from here and it could work out."

_He didn't want to leave, he didn't want to think about going back to work, having to become somebody else in some other country. He didn't want the knowledge that he had a child who he might never meet and who would never know what his or her father had done for them. But if it meant both mother and child would be safe and happy, he would do it._

"You said ya wanted ta be wit' me. Ar' ya trying ta wriggle out already cuz -"

"No, no, nothing's changed. I _want_ to be with you. Of course I do. But I want to be sure _you_ know exactly what you're getting into... CIA, MI-6, MI-5, Russians, Serbs, Iranians, the Provos..." He took another deep breath. "_Your brothers._... They are all going to come after us. Are you _positive_ this is what you want to do?"

At the mention of her siblings, the fiery redhead drew away from him. "Thot's tha real reason ya want me ta step back, isn't it? So if it comes ta it, I won't be thar ta stop ya killing me brudders." The slap that landed on his already bruised cheek made his ear ring.

"I don't want to shoot _anybody!" _The spy yelled back, holding his palm over his abraded face. "But once we run -"

"Ya promise me here and now ya won't raise a hand against me family!" She was on her feet now, the fury she felt showing in every inch of her quaking frame.

Joining her in front of the fire, he tried to take hold of her hands again, desperate to make her understand before they did something there was no coming back from. "Fiona... Fi, please listen..."

She jerked and twisted her wrists to break his grip and a tightly packed fist came at his jaw; however, he grabbed her hands and this time gripped them painfully as she fought against him.

"Fi! Stop it! Fiona, stop! I can't make that promise! _You said it yourself, _as soon as the truth comes out, Liam and Sean will want me dead. This is one of the reasons _why_ I agreed to leave. I wasn't _abandoning_ you, I was giving you a chance for a life without having to look over your shoulder every day for _the rest of your life!_" He pinned her arms to her sides as she started to struggle again.

"Tom Card made me see the truth... Even if the CIA had agreed to protect you and let us work together, you would have _still_ had to leave your family behind. I wasn't sure you wanted that."

As his expression softened, the fury faded from her eyes and Michael slowly released his hold on the Irish spitfire as he felt her relax.

"When the CIA turned me down, the only way to protect you, protect both of us, was to leave, to disappear without a trace so you wouldn't be connected to me. But if you want me to stay, if you really want to do this, you need to understand that once we begin, there's going to be no way back for either of us. No one will protect us, including your family. We're gonna be totally alone and on the run. There will be _no one_ we can trust."

He took both her hands into his again, knowing what came next was probably going to earn him another smack to the face and he needed his head clear.

"You _need to_ understand this, understand what's really at stake here. Fi, your mammy may have held off a rioting mob with a shotgun when she was six months pregnant, God forbid that you have to do the same, and still, for all that, one day your Da _didn't_ come back, your brother Pat _didn't_ come back, Claire..."

The already pale Irishwoman turned as white as sheet and looked like she was about to try to swing again. Quickly, Michael released her trembling fingers and put both his rough palms on either side of her face. Staring into those moisture-filled eyes, he hoped his intent and his sincerity was clear.

"I _don't _want to leave you, I don't. I will do _whatever_ I have to make sure you're safe, _whatever_ that is. If I leave now, we could be together again later, we might not. But you would be safe under the protection of your family. If we run, it's just you and me against the world for the rest of our lives and it's a big world out there with lots of angry people in it. Once we do this, there's _no_ going back_._"

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead before releasing her. Stepping away, the spy watched closely as she processed what he'd just said.

When she next spoke, there was a look of determination in her eyes he had only seen before when Ms. Glenanne was about to declare war on an enemy. "I donnae want a life without ya thar at me side or me babby ta lose a father... _But_ I donnae want me brudders dead either."

She sniffed and swiped angrily at the moisture filling her eyes in an effort to compose herself and turned away, striding towards the bedroom.

"We have ta leave nar, right this second," She spoke over her shoulder. "If we get outta Dublin t'night, befer anybody knows we've gone, we could drive down ta tha South coast, take a fishing boat, or one 'o tha speed boats fram tha marina." The redhead was in the bedroom now, pulling a suitcase down off the top of the wardrobe and laying it on the bed. "We could go ta France or Spain an' nobody would be any tha wiser. Europe is a big place. We could lose ourselves in any one o' a dozen countries."

Biting down on his bottom lip, Michael gave chase.

"No packing." He slammed the case lid closed before Fiona could begin filling it with clothes. "I thought I was clear. We're gonna be travelling light. We're taking only what we can carry on us. Which means guns, ammunition and all the cash we have hidden around this apartment."

"Nothing?" She paused. "Michael, I -"

"_Nothing_, Fi... I'm sorry, but it has to be this way." Dropping to his knees, he reached under the bed and hauled out a long canvas bag. "Weapons, ammo and cash... Then, if there's room, a change of clothes, how's that?" He rose up and dumped the hold-all down on top of the suitcase.

She pursed her lips and looked from the canvas hold-all to the wardrobe containing her clothes and her shoe collection.

"I told you it wouldn't be easy." He tried to be gentle this time. "You just have to think of it all as stuff. If you can't walk away from a few possessions, how are you gonna be able to leave behind the bigger things? I've been trained to do this, leave in thirty minutes or less. You -"

"It's not a problem," Fiona declared firmly. "I know how to make money. I can get more."

"Fi, are you _sure_? Because-"

"Stop askin' me thot same bloody question! Am sure, as sure could be. Now drop it, will ya?"

He flinched as she came at him, expecting her to land another punch to his sore cheek or jaw. But instead of raining blows upon him, his petite lover wrapped her arms about his neck and began kissing him with such desperation and need that it took his breath away.

"This _is_ whot I want," she proclaimed when she released him and then blew out a short breath. "So tell me how do we get away fram har clean?"

"We can't," he admitted. "Not completely, but we can make it hard for them to follow us. We wait for the call to tell me it's time to go." He could see the argument coming already, so he held up a finger to forestall it. "It's the only way. I'm pretty sure if either one of us pokes our heads out of that door before the call comes, we'll find either Tom Card's or Chambers' surveillance team or both waiting for us."

He turned back towards the open bag on the bed and then pulled his pistol from under his pillow.

"When I go out the door, you sneak out behind me. I'll go down the steps to the right and deal with Card's driver. You're gonna have to duck down and make it to the stairs at the far end. When you get to the ground, find us a car and I'll meet you behind the building."

"Why nae get rid o' yar man Card's driver an' take his car? Tis a fancy MI6 Audi saloon an' it's bound ta armoured an' wit' a full tank."

"You _really _want me to answer that?" _The government issued tracker hidden somewhere on the chassis sprang to mind._

"No, I want ya ta turn off tha lights so it looks like ya've been a good little spy an' drugged yar asset." The soft palm which caressed his cheek and the sparkle in the blue-green eyes all took the sting out of the words.

He was glad she could still joke at a time like this, because he was doing his best to hide how terrified he was by the twists and turns of the evening. _How the hell was he going to protect them all in seven or eight months time?... If they even managed to last that long._

Switching off the lights in the living room and the bedroom, the couple began to tear part the flat in earnest, pulling every piece of hardware they had hidden around the few rooms including some secured inside the furniture and in the walls.

**()()()()()**

Riordan Murphy made his way home from his hard days labor as a stacker driver on Dublin docks via a stop at the neighborhood pub. By the time he had taken in what was commonly known as a skin-full, it was dark and already well past supper time. Crossing over the street, he stumbled up the curb on the opposite side and made his way through a set of gates which led to a small car park and the entrance to the block of flats beyond, where his wife of fifteen years would be waiting for him with meal warming in the oven.

Climbing up the stairs, he reached the third floor balcony and made his way along to his own little slice of heaven. Fumbling with clumsy fingers at getting the key in the lock, he eventually entered his home and came to an abrupt stop. His drink sodden mind was trying without success to come up with what he could have possibly done to cause the love of his life to be pacing in front of their three bar electric fire, with a flame and coal effect base, looking like bloody murder was in offing.

"Berni? Whot's up, luv?"

"Are ya deaf?" came the puzzling reply.

But then the loud bangs and creaks coming through the wall from next door made it through the alcoholic haze. "Ach, thar jus' havin' a party, luv. Leave tham alone."

"A party is it, ya daft man? I heard har cryin' earlier an' thar wa' enough shoutin' ta raise tha dead. I thought he wa' fixin' ta leave har fer sure this time, then all this started."

"Tis none o' our business," Riordan muttered. He knew who lived next door, just the same as everybody else did in the block of flats, and wanted no part of whatever was going on between the couple.

"It wa' made our business when ya took thot man's money," his spouse reminded him. "Whot d'ya think he'll do if it _is_ sommit an' we dinnae tell ham?... Whot d'ya think he'll do _ta us_?"

_It had happened on a balmy Saturday afternoon in six months ago. Mr. Murphy had left the football grounds on Connaught Street after watching his team, The Bohemians, beat their rivals, the Shamrock Rovers FC. Everybody was in a good mood. Oh, there'd been a little scuffle on the terraces, but nothing serious, and he was just on his way home to get changed for a night out celebrating when a large black car had pull up alongside of him, the window at the back slowly rolling down._

"_Riordan Murphy?" He had found himself staring into a set of icy cold pale blue-grey eyes. "Am Liam Glenanne, an' I have a favor ta ask o'ya."_

_Everybody who had lived through the late nineteen seventies and all of the eighties knew who Liam Glenanne was. Informers, criminals (those not sanctioned by the IRA) and traitors in their own ranks on both sides of the border feared the appearance of this man._

"_A favor? Whot ever ya want, Mr. Glenanne, sar." After all, what else he could have said?_

"_Ya live next ta somebody very dear ta me. I want ya ta keep a friendly eye on har... Ya know tha sorta thing... Anything happens ya think I need ta know about, ya give me a call on this number." A gloved hand appeared and handed him a piece of paper with a number scrawled on it. "Day o' night, tis no never mind ta me... An' here fer yar troubles." Four fifty punt notes came through the open window. "Ya'll get tha same every week..._._ Donnae let me down, Riordan_."

"Damn ya, woman." The man of the house went to begin a search for the scrap of paper, but stopped when his wife held it out to him along with the telephone. "If this turns out ta be nuttin', McBride is certain sure ta kill us, an' if he donnae, thot woman o' his will."

"Well, ya shoulda thought o' thot befer taking tha man's money, shouldn't ya?" Bernadette Murphy turned away as her husband dialled the number, her hand quivering as she raised the cigarette between her fingers to her lips.

"Mr. Glenanne, it's Riordan Murphy..."

**()()()()()**

Their home looked like it had been gone through by a professional search team. The couch where they had spent so many evenings was upended and the cloth coverings ripped away. There were holes in the walls and plaster scattered over the carpeted floor. The kitchen units were dismantled, exposing hidden stashes of ammunition and explosives. With everything pulled from its hiding places, Michael and Fiona stacked all their emergency supplies on the bed.

"Your Hecate II sniper rifle with ten rounds, two sawed off shotguns with a box of fifty cartridges, a modified Remington Shotgun, fully loaded with no spare ammo, our handguns and two full boxes of 9 millimeter bullets plus full clips..." Michael made it sound like a pitiful amount of fire power.

"Yar forgettin' thar's six pound o' semtex, forty meters o' det cord an' three electronic timers. Thar's two smoke grenades an' -" Fiona's words were cut off by the ringing of a phone – her mobile phone. Looking at the clock on the bedside table, the Irishwoman could suddenly feel the beating of her heart. _A call so late at night was never a good thing. _

"Fi?"

She glanced at the display on her cell and then up at her lover. "Liam... Liam's callin' me. Whot d' I do? If I -"

"Answer it, Fi. Just find out what he wants and hang up."

She shook her head... It wasn't as easy as that. Her guilty conscience was already hard at work, warning her that her oldest brother wouldn't be calling so late unless he knew something was up. _Dinnae he always know when somebody wa' lying ta ham?_

"Damn it, Fiona, answer your -" The ringing stopped before he could finish his demand. "You should have answered," the spy accused softly.

"An' whot would ya have had me say ta ham?" she snapped back.

All she could think about was how badly she had just messed up. If she'd answered, he might have believed whatever she told him. But now... _everybody knew that Liam didn't cope well with being ignored._ It was a cardinal rule: you always answered the phone when a family member called. In her overwrought emotional state, all the young Irishwoman could think of was that now it was a race to see who got to them first: her brothers or Michael's bosses.

"We have ta leave nar." Ms. Glenanne began loading their weapons into the bag. "I have money, lots o' cash, hidden on thar Kennedy industrial estate. It'll be enough ta pay somebody ta -"

"Fi, wait... Fiona, wait!..." His hand landed over hers, stopping her rush to pack. "We _can't_ leave until I get the call from Card."

"If we stay har -" The house phone interrupted her words and they both turned to look into the lounge.

"Answer it," Mr. Westen hissed, pulling her towards the white slimline device hanging on the wall by the door. "Find out what he wants!"

"Michael!" She yelped at his rough handling. Freeing herself from his grip, she aimed a punch at his chest to make him back off. Snatching up the handset, she drew in a shuddering breath. "Yes?"

"_Fiona, why dinnae ya answer yar mobile?"_

"I – I'd left it in tha living room. By tha time I got ta it, ya rung off. Why ar' ya callin' at this hour?"

"_An ya dinnae think ta ring me back? …... Are ya okay?... Is McBride wit' ya?"_

"Yes, am fine. Whot d'ya-"

"_Jus' listen ta me, sweetheart. Am on me way o'er, jus' keep ham thar. I need ta speak ta ya both... Donnae tell ham I'm comin' though. Can ya do thot, sweetheart?"_

"Whot's -"

"_Jus' stay whar' ya are... Am on me way."_

Before she could ask any more questions, her brother ended the call and she was left staring numbly at the handset. It was just as she suspected. _He knew_. She had no idea how. _He only had people all over both Belfast and Dublin in all walks of life keeping him informed on what was happening in both cities. _

"Ya heard ham. He's on his way. We have ta leave, nar... No more talk o' waiting."

But he was baring the way back into the bedroom, his blue eyes narrowed and boring into her soul. It was an expression she had never seen on the face of her lover and it was a sudden reminder that this man wasn't Michael McBride, but rather Michael Westen that she was about to run away with.

"We are staying _right_ here until _I_ get the call... We walk out now and it won't just be Liam we're running from. We'll alert Card and Chambers' that I've gone rogue. I'm trying to buy us some breathing space, Fi. Calm down and think about what you're doing."

"Calm down? Calm down, ya say? Ya heard ham! He's comin' har an' he wan's ta speak wit' us. He knows sommit." _ How could he be so bloody cool? Most men would be out of the door and half way down the street at the mere suggestion that Liam Glenanne wanted to have a chat with them and he was just standing there looking like he wanted to kill someone instead of thinking about saving his own neck._

"If he turns up before Card calls, I'll answer the door and tell him you've gone to bed." He held up a hand to stop another outburst. "I know he'll push inside, but it will convince anybody watching that I've stuck to the plan. Once he's inside, I'll neutralize him."

"Neutralize? What d'ya mean ya'll neutralize me brudder?" Her hands were in fists again as family loyalty took a hold of her soul.

"I'll knock him out and tie him up. I'll catch him off guard... He knows me as McBride. He won't expect an attack, not from me."

"And if he has somebody wit' ham?" _Her brother had two black belts. How could he possibly..._

He was back directly in front of her, his hands cupping her shoulders, those intense blue eyes drawing her in, unlike a few minutes ago when his gaze had been searing her soul.

"Believe me, I can handle it."

_And God help them both, she did believe him._ She didn't understand why she felt it, but something in those expressive deep blue orbs told her that he spoke the truth.

"Do you trust me? You _have_ to trust me, Fiona, or we might as well forget doing this right now."

"I trust you, Michael Westen. God forgive me, but am trusting ya."

When he drew her closer, his lips gently touching against her forehead, Liam's little sister relaxed into the arms of her lover, her own limbs slipping around his waist as she rested her head against his chest, letting the steady beat of his heart settle her own shredded nerves.

But this respite only lasted a few minutes, as Michael's cell phone then vibrated in his pocket. Releasing his hold, the Irishwoman could only watch as he read the message on the screen. When the dark haired spy looked up at her, she knew the time had come.

"I'll finish packing," he spoke calmly. "You grab whatever clothes you want to take... Leave your credit cards, driving licence, anything that can identify you behind, you won't be needing them."

()()()()()()()()

Less than five minutes after the message had flashed up on his cell phone, Michael Westen picked up the heavy canvas bag weighed down with their emergency supplies and walked out of the flat where they had lived happily for the last six and a half months, pausing he looked down over the balcony. To anybody watching, it would appear he was checking out the large saloon car which was waiting to carry him away and out of Ireland for good.

Behind him, Fiona crept out and along the walkway bent almost double so she would remain out of sight of the surveillance team that had to be watching the front of the block of flats, as there was no way out through the back of the building. All the young Irishwoman carried was her lock pick set, her snub nosed .38 and one of the sawed off double barrelled shotguns.

Reaching the staircase at the far end of the balcony, the redhead glanced back in time to see the man she loved turn his back on her and begin the slow walk down to where the dark colored Audi A6 sat with its engine quietly running.

"_Leave me to take care of the surveillance team and the driver. You find us a car, nothing flashy, a few years old but well maintained is good and a common color. Remember, we don't want to be noticed." _

_He had given her a stern look then, knowing her taste in stolen cars tended to be a bit more showy. _

"_I'm going to try to get the men on guard to come to me. If I can do it quietly, I'll take them out. If I can't, I'm going to have to get in the car and wait for the driver to radio in that he has me... If that happens, the surveillance will probably come up and check that I've cleaned out the flat properly and that's why I'm rigging the trip wire and the stun grenade inside before we go. It'll make noise but hopefully the neighbors will think it's a car back firing."_

"_And if ya get in tha car, whot d'ya expect me ta do?"_

"_Follow me. I' ll drag it out as long as I can before I get in the car. As soon as Card thinks I'm on my way I'll take out the driver and then we'll run." He smiled at her then, a glimmer of the man she thought she'd fallen in love with. "With a wee bit o' luck thot'll give us a half hour head start." Just that fast, McBride was gone again. "If we can get out of the city in that time, we stand a chance."_

The flame haired paramilitary had agreed to her lover's plan; however, now as she watched him walk off, she began to form her own more practical alternative. One that didn't involve the man who had stolen her heart getting into a car and driving away with the enemy.

Waiting until Michael had started down the concrete steps which led to the ground floor and the car park, Fiona rushed back in the direction she'd just came. Keeping low, she made it to the staircase in time to hear the heavy fire doors at the bottom bang shut.

Stealthily she crept down, making sure there was no warning echo of her foot falls to alert the men out in the car park. Opening the door only wide enough to slip through, the petite woman made it outside in time to see two men dressed to fit in amongst the locals in jeans and jumpers, cautiously approaching her boyfriend one from either side.

Pursing her lips, Ms. Glenanne placed the shotgun down at her feet. The shortened barrel of the weapon made it great for intimidation, but total useless for a shot requiring accuracy. Drawing her snub nosed revolver from her waistband, she thumbed back the hammer and edged closer to where Michael had now come to a stop.

She smiled her approval when she realized the spy had stopped beside a large transit van, which put him out of sight of the man sitting behind the wheel of the car. After carefully placing the bag down on the ground, Mr. Westen raised his hands and while one of the men stood guard, the other quickly frisked him.

"Mr. Card doesn't want any trouble at the airport," the man standing guard spoke up and Fiona realized the men were British, either spies or SAS. "So, what's in the bag?"

"My dirty laundry, fellas... You want to go through it?" He went onto one knee and began to open the zipper.

"Nah, leave it mate... Get on your way now... We'll go make sure you left the place nice and tidy an' maybe we'll check on that little Irish number you were shacked up with too." The British agent laughed as he turned away, his colleague hesitating only for a second before following behind.

The Irish spitfire raised her gun, taking aim, her temper flaring at what may have happened if her lover had drugged her and left her to be - She couldn't even think about what they may have done to her. All she knew was somebody was going to pay.

But even as her finger slipped inside the trigger guard, Michael was rising up and in his hand he had hold of the other sawed off shotgun. The two British agents were taken totally by surprise, as was Fiona by the sudden attack by the American spy.

Using the shotgun as a club, he hit one and then the other in the back of the skull with the handle of the weapon. The first one went down like a stone, but the second man, the one who had spoken of checking out her drugged body, staggered straight towards where the petite redhead was hiding. Rearing up, she brought her hand gun up and pistol whipped the already dazed man to the ground.

"Fi?" Michael ran at her speaking in a whisper, his face a picture of barely controlled rage."Fiona, what are you doing here?" he demanded between clenched teeth..

_He would have drugged her and then those men would have -_"Saving yar ungrateful ass. Thot's whot am doin'." She hissed back, giving the unconscious man on the ground a hard kick to the ribs.

"You -" He paused and took back control. When he next spoke, there was a coldness in his tone leaving her in no doubt of his mood. "Help me hide the bodies and then _go find us a car!_"

They rolled the bodies of the two men under the van and Michael shoved the shotgun back into the bag and closed the zipper.

"I'm sorry," When he looked back at her again, his expression had soften some. The anger in his blue eyes was not for her this time. His voice was so low it was hard to catch his words. "I would have _never_ let them touch you."

"I know thot, Michael..." She pressed a quick kiss to his lips and then turned. "Now go befer me brudder turns up an' skins ya alive."

Grim faced, the former spy nodded. "Don't take too long."

And before Fiona could reply, he was gone, crossing the car park in long easy strides.

()()()()()()()()

When Michael reached the waiting the car, the man behind the wheel wound down the window.

"You're late. Chuck the bag on the back seat and we'll get going. Mr. Card is expecting you in twenty minutes and it'll take me at least that long to get there. You better hope he has the pull to hold that plane or you're gonna be stuck here 'til morning, mate."

Doing as he was told, Michael slid the hold-all along the back seat so he could sit directly behind the driver. "Thanks for the lift."

"All part of the job... I've got five years till retirement and this is the most exciting thing I've done all month..."

The man continued to chat, mostly about what he was hoping to do once he was retired from service to his country and Mr. Westen made sure to sound like he was paying attention. In truth, his eyes were watching the driver's wing mirror waiting to see a set of headlights and Fiona Glenanne staring back at him through the wind shield of whatever car she'd managed to acquire.

"Don't you have to call in? You know, let Mr. Card know I'm coming in."

"I've already done it. I called in as soon as I saw those MI6 boys give you the all clear."

Fiona was trailing behind them in a silver four door saloon, staying just far enough back that she couldn't be recognized. It had to be her. There were so few cars out on the road and it had followed them on the last two turns the driver had taken.

"That's good to know you're on top of the job." Michael shifted slowly forward in his seat.

"Like I was saying, I've been at it th-"

The dark haired now former spy wrapped his arm across the older man's throat, choking him out and trying to hold on as the car swerved all over the road. It took ten seconds to render a man unconscious and, in that time, the driver managed to put the large car up on to the pavement and into two parked cars before he finally passed out.

"I'm sorry." Michael patted the unconscious man on the shoulder and then grabbed the heavy canvas bag as the PIRA operative pulled up alongside of the car wreck he had managed to create.

"Really, Michael? I thought tha idea was fer a quiet escape... Is this whot passes fer stealthy fer spies?"

"Just drive, Fi." He slammed the door shut on the Toyota Corolla and let his head fall back against the head rest. _This was it. All his bridges were burned now. It was now just him and the flame haired Irishwoman who held his heart._

"We'll stop at tha industrial estate whar I have me money and be on our way south. Then we'll be on a boat ta France by tha morning."

He let her talk as he tried desperately to keep himself from flying apart. _He had done it._ He had left the agency which had been his whole live for the last nine years and he had done it for the love of a woman.

()()()()()

A large black car parked a little way down the road from the scene of a car crash. Two parked vehicles side-swiped and then the wrecked Audi over the curb and on the sidewalk. One uniformed member of the Garda turned from the scene and walked towards the rear of the waiting automobile. At his approach, the back window slowly wound down.

"Witnesses say thar wa' some sorta fight takin' place inside tha Audi... Once it crashed, this young fella got out an' jumped inta a silver Corolla driven by a long haired young lass."

"Thank ye, Desmond... Har," he handed over a small roll of notes. "Lose tha report on this an' I'll see yar missus gets thot fancy coat she's been eyeing up in Frasers."

"Anythin' ya want, Sar. Ya know me." The police officer smiled as he tucked the money away.

"Aye, thot I do, Desmond, thot I do."

Moments later the black car was pulling away from the curb. The man with the cold pale eyes sitting on the back seat leant forward and touched his loyal man behind the wheel on the shoulder. "Me sister has a stash over on tha Kennedy estate. Head o'er thar and I'll direct ya in."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **_Apologies again for the late posting, although we're not going to try to blame Larry for this one. We want to thank you all again for your interest and your attention as well as all the wonderful reviews! FF Email Alerts don't seem to be working, so tell another #burner! And now onto our story without further ado!_

**()()()()()()()()**

**BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL**

**Chapter Three**

Michael Westen was a man adrift. His mind was still trying to come to terms with what he had done for the woman at his side, the woman and the baby she was carrying... _his baby_.

What the hell had he been thinking? He had no right to even consider being a father. He knew nothing about being a parent.

"_Are you ready for that sorta commitment?_" Tom had asked him that question less than twenty four hours ago and his answer had been to accept the bottle of sedative to render his asset unconscious so he could safely disappear into the night.

But for the first time in a very long time, the cold logical side of his brain had been over-ruled by his heart. Because his resolve had only lasted until a pair of blue-green eyes had stared into his soul and told him they had made a new life.

"_Love nothing and nothing you love can be used against you" _had been words he'd lived by for most of his life. He'd learned that lesson the hard way, thanks to his dear old dad, long before his training officer had warned him about the dangers of deep cover missions and how easy it was to get emotionally involved with an asset.

"_Michael?_"

He had forgotten the lesson, he had let his defenses down and allowed the fiery Irishwoman to steal his heart. By the time he had slept with her for the first time, she had already been more than an asset to be manipulated and used... And now... now by taking down three MI6 officers and disobeying direct orders from a superior, he had handed his enemies the key to destroying him.

"_Michael._"

He had committed the ultimate sin for a spy. He had fallen for his asset and now he was betraying his own people in order to stay by her side. Tom Card, the CIA, his own government, they would never let them rest. They would all want to see him rot away in a cell for what he'd done and Fiona… He couldn't bear to think about what might happen to her if any one of their enemies caught up to them.

"_Ahhh, Michael... Shite!_"

The car slammed to a stop, jerking him from his reverie just in time for him to witness his Irish lover open the car door and lean outside, her petite frame convulsing as she vomited onto the road.

"Jeez, Fi, what's wrong?" He reached out, leaning over the gear stick and hand brake to stroke a hand down her back. "Fiona?"

Getting no reply, he quickly opened his own door and rushed around to the other side of the car. Carefully avoiding the mess on the tarmac, he knelt down in front of her, his fingers carding her long auburn hair away from her face.

"Fiona, please talk to me, what's wrong? Are you getting sick?"

"No," she finally answered him. Wiping a hand over her mouth, she let her head fall back against the headrest. "I – it just came over me... Must be sommit ta do wit' tha babby."

"When did you last eat?" He placed his palm on her forehead and then on her cheek, feeling the cold clammy skin.

"I don' know, this mornin'... Breakfast? I've gone longer than this in between meals. It cannae be -"

He had vague memories of his own mother being sick when she was pregnant with his brother, Nate, and other memories of her being so tired that she rarely finished her daily housework and how angry his dad would get at having no hot meal waiting for him on the table whenever he chose to roll in.

"I think you're supposed to be eating for two now..." Pursing his lips, he looked along the street. In the distance he could see the lights of a petrol station. "I'll get you something to eat as soon as it's safe... Can you hold on a little bit longer? I'll drive." With a little gentle coaxing, he got her out of the driver's seat and around to the passenger side of the car.

"There's a garage up ahead, but we can't risk it. You know what those places are like for CCTV... Will you be okay until I can find somewhere else?"

"I tol' ya befer, I'm nae made o' glass. Jus' get us over ta Kennedy's and yer lookin' fer Sullivan's Tire an' Exhaust. It's a little shop along Bluebell Way."

"I'll find it." Closing the door, he walked round the car and got behind the wheel. "It's gonna be fine, I'll get us away from here, I promise."

"I believe ya, Michael." She smiled at him, her hand drifting across to fall onto his thigh. "But we need ta get goin' cuz thot crash ya caused is gonna attract all tha wrong sorta attention."

The dark haired former spy let his ex-paramilitary pregnant girlfriend rest while he drove westward towards the John F. Kennedy Industrial Estate, obeying all the traffic signs and rules of the road.

With a bit of luck, all the local law would be busy dealing with the smashed-up cars and the unconscious man behind the wheel of the fancy vehicle resting on the curb. He just hoped the driver had enough good sense to lie about who he was and what he was doing, instead of admitting to all and sundry that he was an employee of the British Government working covertly on foreign soil.

"We're here," he announced as he brought the Toyota to a stop outside the chain link gates of a long single storey building.

"Stay har. I'll pick tha lock on tha gate an' wit' a bit o' luck we can get this done wit'out disturbing tha guards who patrol tha site."

He waited while she unlocked the gates and then drove inside, parking the car alongside two others which were most likely there awaiting repairs, before joining her at the side door which would give them access to the inside.

"You own this place?" he whispered.

"I bought it under a false name. Tis run by a friend o' an old friend fram me university days. He knows I drop in fram time ta time, but he knows ta nae ask about me business," she explained as she put in the code to the electronic key lock.

Once inside, he let her lead the way to the office which ran the length of one side of the building. Beneath the waist high counter top, under a layer of vinyl tiles, there was a small trap door which opened to reveal a metal box. Inside were five neat stacks of fifty punt notes. "Five grand… I know tis nae enough ta live on fer very long, but it should be enough ta get us out o' tha country."

Michael glanced at his watch. An hour had passed since they had left the flat, which meant by now Card would know he wasn't sticking to his orders. His training officer would be sending his own team over to check out what had happened, or maybe the MI6 agents they had left under the transit van in front of the flats had come around and called for help.

Swallowing thickly, he caught hold of her elbow and started towards the door. "We have to leave... now." They would have been picked up on every CCTV camera they drove past. It would take a while, but Chambers would use his contacts in the Garda to get hold of the footage. The small window he had created for their escape was already closing. He could _feel _it.

"Yer right..." The redhead nodded at the large clock on the wall. "Liam knows about this place, so does Sean. They'll have got ta tha flat by now an' know we've run."

"But they won't know where we're running to."

They were half way to the door when Michael stopped and spun around, his hand digging into the front pocket of his jeans.

"Michael, whot are-?"

"You need to eat and drink." He began feeding all the change he had into the large vending machine which stood next to the customer waiting room.

"Why don' ya jus smash tha front? It would be quicker."

"Cuz I don't want your friend getting into any trouble for the busted machine," he answered. Michael turned to her, holding several bars of chocolate and bottles of water. "I promise I'll get you something a bit healthier later, but at least this will keep your energy levels up. It's gonna be a long night," he concluded with a sigh.

**()()()()()**

Tom Card stood in a private suite in the business class passenger lounge at Dublin International Airport listening to the smug, supercilious voice of Mr. Richard Chambers coming through the earpiece attached to his phone. His mounting fury was only showing in the tightening of his pursed lips as he found out just how well Michael Westen had played him.

"It appears I was right when I told you letting Westen leave the safe house was a mistake, Agent Card. We have irrefutable proof _your_ man has gone native. I have three men in hospital, one of them was beaten so badly he has been put into a medically induced coma. The doctors say he took a sustained attack to his head and torso... I'm holding _you_ responsible for all that has happened, especially now I've got hold of Westen's full history. The CIA loaned us an agent who had just spent months recovering from serious head injuries, who had been under review for his actions in-"

"You mean the agent who ended the threat of the Real IRA for you? Who warned _you_ _personally_ that a large bomb was going to be planted in Omagh, which you did nothing about?" Card had had enough of listening to the British intelligence officer trying to lay the blame at the door of his own agency. "Ya see, Dickie, I read reports, too. And I'll tell you something else I know, Michael isn't thinking clearly at the moment. But I know him, I trained him. There isn't a move that kid knows that I didn't teach him. So you're gonna give me-"

"I'm not giving you anything, Mr. Card." It was the British intelligence officer's turn to interrupt and from his tone he was taking great delight on delivering his instructions. "As I told Mr. Westen, I've washed my hands of the case. Westen was your problem when he attacked three agents of the crown. I've been instructed to fly you to the UK, where our Home Secretary and the Minister for Northern Ireland are waiting to hear your explanation for this evenings events and I believe your own ambassador is waiting for a word too."

The senior CIA agent features flushed red and his hands clenched into fists. _Were these guys for real? _"Michael Westen is a very experienced operative. If I have to take the time hold hands with a bunch of politicians -"

"You'll do precisely-"

"If I have to waste my time explaining the actions of my agent, we'll lose him. We can end this quickly and quietly, Chambers, if you-."

"The ramifications of Agent Westen's misguided love affair with a known terrorist stretch a lot further than your agency's embarrassment. The whole peace process is still up in the air and there are already rumors spreading about an informer in the Provo ranks. There is a very real danger that Sinn Fein, and the various factions of the IRA, will use this situation to create dissent and try to wring out even more concessions from our and the Irish governments...So unless you want to make this more of an international incident than it already is, you will get on the plane to London and you will _not _do anything until it has been cleared through Whitehall and the Cabinet Office. Is that clear, Mr. Card?"

"As clear as day, Mr. Chambers," the senior CIA official growled, containing his anger with great difficulty. _This_ was _exactly_ what he had been trying to prevent when he'd booked the flight over here immediately after getting a phone call that he needed to talk some sense into his apparently love-struck former trainee.

As soon as the conversation with Chambers ended, Tom Card started keying in another number into his cell. It was five hours earlier on the East Coast of the US and, if he was going to have to play politics with the UK government, he needed somebody else's help tracking down Michael Westen.

After all, he wasn't only _his_ reputation on the line now his star pupil had lost his mind.

**()()()()()**

Fiona Glenanne sat back in the passenger seat of the Toyota Corolla she had stolen earlier in the night, sipping on one of the bottles of water while her dark haired lover drove slowly back the way they had come.

"_Before we head south, we need to lay down tracks in the opposite direction. It's an old trick. So to make it work, we'll have to put on a little show. You know, convince MI6 that they've put one over us when they discover our trail."_

He had explained what he was doing as if he was giving her lecture in a beginners course on how to evade capture by intelligence agencies.

"_Thot's nuttin' new. We do it all tha time," she'd replied airily between sips of water._

"_Good... So, you know what we're doing. We're going to drive past a couple of speed cameras, let them get a good look at our faces and then we'll dump this ride and let them get one more look with us heading north and then we'll loop back around and steal another car before we go south."_

Gazing at the profile of the man at her side, the young Irishwoman chewed on her lower lip, deep in thought. Outwardly nothing had changed. The same dark hair curled around his ears and flopped onto his forehead, the same deep blue eyes were focusing on the road ahead, his pouting bottom lip and thinner top lip all looked exactly the same, although right now his upper lip had almost disappeared as he bit down on it.

It was like she was looking at a hollow replica of her wild Kilkenny lover, the easy going, smooth talking rebel who was always up for any bit of mischief that came his way. She wanted McBride, but he was gone. Michael Westen had stepped into his body and taken over. Reaching out with one hand, the redhead let her palm rest on the American's thigh, seeking some reassurance that the man who had stolen her heart was still there.

"Fi, I think we have company."

Turning her eyes from the man at her side to look through the wind shield at the long fancy black car blocking the road ahead, Fiona gasped as all the color drained from her already too pale complexion.

"It's Liam... How tha hell did he find us?"

"You said he was on the way to the flat. He must have -" His words dried up.

"He must have arrived just after we left. Then the crash... _Feck!_ Half tha Gardai in this part o' Dublin ar' on his payroll." She punched raven haired man on the arm. "Get us outta har now!"

"_I'm trying!_" He spun the wheel and sent their stolen ride spinning in a one eighty turn and, with wheels spinning, shot off back the way they had come. "Is there another way out of here?"

"Go left and then take tha second right. It'll take us down ta tha Old Naas Road an' ya can get onta tha back streets fram thar... But put yar foot down, would ya?"

Looking over her shoulder, Fiona bit down on her lip hard as her fear grew. There was _no way_ the stolen family saloon car they were riding in was going to outrun the powerful high performance auto that was being driven by Liam's primary body guard, Davy Doyle. The man wasn't only part of her brother's inner circle; he was also a living legend in the street racing community of West Belfast.

But Michael Westen was no slouch either. He wrung every bit of power he could out of the Corolla while throwing it around tight corners in an effort to draw away from their pursuers. Then, as they reached the main road which ran through the center of a network of back streets, Michael surprised the Irishwoman by coming to an abrupt stop.

"We can't outrun him and, the longer this chase goes on, the more attention we'll attract. We'll have police swarming over us if we don't end this now."

Fiona nodded grimly, her heart thudding loudly in her chest. An hour ago, Michael had cut his ties. Now her time had come and she had never felt so sick in all her life.

"Fi..." His hand landed over hers and he looked deeply into her weary eyes. "You can go with him if that's what you want... I'll – I'll be fine... I can run, if you don't want to this. It's not too late, if -"

She stared into his cobalt blue orbs, stilling his words with a determined gaze. All she saw before her was the father of her child, her lover and her soul mate, who had thrown away everything to be with her. All her doubts fled before her overwhelming love for this man at her side.

_Her mother used to recite the story of her own great love affair as she brushed out the tangles of her two girls' long hair. Sitting before the blazing fire burning in the hearth of their farmhouse home, she would tell the tale of how at sixteen years of age she had fallen in love with the dashing and charming and several years older Patrick Glenanne, a man destined for the priesthood, who had after several trials, as in all good romance stories, returned her love and turned away from the call to the cloth to fight for another cause and raise large happy family._

"Am fine, Michael. Ya jus' stay back an' let me talk ta him." Her heartbeat was slowing and she could feel herself becoming detached from her turbulent emotions. Whatever had brought Liam flying across from the north to the south to track her down, she would deal with it. She would, if necessary, lie through her teeth to her family if that was what it took to save her lover.

"I don't think your brother is going to want to hear anything we say." His fingers brushed against her cheek.

"Ya let me do the talkin'." Ms. Glenanne captured his hand and kissed his knuckles. "An' keep thot gun o' yars outta sight." She gestured with a tilt of her head to the handgun on his lap.

Opening the car door, the lithe young woman stepped out, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the bright glare of the headlights on her brother's car.

Squinting she watched as Davy Doyle got out of the front driver's door. Using it as cover, he stood holding a handgun aimed not at her, but at where Michael stood by their vehicle. From the back of the long black auto, Liam Glenanne stepped out and walked slowly towards her, stopping a few feet away, his pale blue-grey eyes flickering from her to the man behind her and then back again.

"Fiona, sweetheart, ya need ta come wit' me," he spoke softly, holding out a hand to her.

"I can't..." She took a half step back and then steeled her nerves. "Why are ya here, Liam?"

"We can talk about it later, but nar I need ya ta come wit' me."

He took a step closer, but came to a stop when he saw the gun in her hand.

"All o' ya, stand down," the head of the clan ordered, holding up a hand, his eyes never wavering from his sister. "Fiona, this is nae tha place fer this... We'll go back ta our Ma's an' talk this through. Jus' get in tha car."

"Tell me whot has ya chasin' me all o'er Dublin first." The gun felt heavy and shook in her hand, as she silently prayed it had just been a call from a nosy neighbor which had brought him looking for her. _I__f he knew of the pregnancy, then Michael would be a dead man or on his way up the aisle with a shotgun to his back. If her oldest brother had some how found out who her lover really was... _Fiona truly did _not_ want to go there.

"Ask ham," Liam growled, his pale eyes locking on the dark haired man standing on the other side of the Toyota. "Ask ham about a man called O'Dowd, a scumbag traitor who sold out his own people ta tha British government."

"Michael?" Fiona risked a quick glance over to where her dark haired lover stood.

"I -"

"Nothing ta say then, _McBride_? Well, if not O'Dowd, how about Pat Mulholland, thot little bastid thot wa' always hangin' around tha Black Sand." Liam talked over whatever Michael was going to say. "Ya remember ham, dontcha? We picked ham up jus' after he finished beggin' ya ta meet ham."

"Liam?" This was far worse than she had suspected. Listening to her brother's words, it was plain that he knew everything, _everything except the pregnancy she prayed silently._

"Am sorry, sweetheart." He turned his eyes back onto the youngest sibling left to him, his expression filled with sadness. "Yar man thar is a spy. He's an American workin' fer tha Brits. Ya know whot thot means, Fiona. Ya cannae be wit ham. Now, stop yar feckin' about an' do as yer tol'."

It was as if she was in a bubble. She felt light headed and completely detached. Her lips moved and she heard the words coming out, but it was as if somebody else was facing the head of the family.

"I know who and whot Michael is. I've known fer a while."

"_Ya knew?_ _Ya knew_ he wa' aidin' tha enemy? Ya've had thot bastid in yar bed knowing whot he is?"

She had only seen Liam this angry once before. As his features hardened and his mouth thinned, the words dried in her mouth, his pale eyes ablaze with unbridled fury.

"Have ya lost yar feckin' mind? Ya stupid bitch, d'ya know whot ya've done? Whot's goin' ta-"

"Liam!" Michael shouted over the older man's diatribe. Moving swiftly, he came from behind the car, determined to protect the his girlfriend from her brother's rage.

"Ya claim ta love har an' ya'd drag her inta this?" Mr. Glenanne swung on the true focus of his anger, but came to a stop as a bullet dug into the ground at his feet before ricocheting off to the side.

"Nobody fire!" Liam held up a hand, ordering Davy Doyle to stand down. "Fiona, ya have no idea whot's comin' fer ya!... An' ya thar, ar' ya gonna hide behind me sister's skirts ferever?"

"Michael, get back in tha car," Fiona ordered before her lover could answer the accusation.

"Fiona -" She hear Michael cock his weapon and knew that, at any second, a bloody shoot out could start between the two most important men in her life.

"Don't argue wit' me! Get in tha car!" She fired twice more, hitting her older sibling's vehicle as she aimed for anything important in the engine block. "Liam, please, jus' let us alone. We jus' want ta be free." Ms. Glenanne jumped into the car, followed by her dark haired lover, before speeding away.

"Get another car out har!" Liam snapped out the order and then pulled out his phone.

_It was time to fill in the rest of the family about his sister's insanity._

He wasted no time with small talk. As soon as the family gunrunner answered his phone with a barely audible grunt, Liam began to bombard his sibling with instructions.

"Seamus, I need ya ta put tha word out ta all yar contacts... at tha docks all along tha coast thot ya want ta know tha second Fiona turns up or calls lookin' fer a lift outta tha country."

"Whot tha feck fer?" Seamus' sleepy voice demanded. "D'ya have no idea whot time it is, man?"

"Fiona has run off wit' McBride," his older brother snarled, his frustration with the situation almost getting the better of him. "An' make sure they know ta keep thar mouths shut. Tis a private family matter."

"Ya wan' ta stop our sister, _our twenty eight year old sister_, fram runnin' off wit' a fella she's been livin' wit' fer—"

"I cannae talk about it o'er tha phone, Shay. Just do it, will ya? An' stop bloody questioning me orders!"

**()()()()()**

Michael was back behind the wheel of the Corolla, his mind working rapidly through this latest catastrophe. Driving back into Dublin was a bust. With Liam Glenanne coming after them, there was no time left to lay a false trail. It was going to have to be a straight run south and then try to find a boat to carry them over to France.

He tried to focus on what he knew about the Glenanne siblings, working out their strengths and weaknesses. The news that O'Dowd hadn't just quit and disappeared after one too many confrontations with the British intelligence officers was a shock he wasn't ready to deal with. He had come to like the feisty Irishman and, without his training, Michael knew he wouldn't have lasted a week once the assignment started in earnest. If Liam had gotten O'Dowd to talk, yet hadn't passed the intel up to his masters on the Provo Council, then that had to mean that regardless of how furious the head of the clan was with his sister, he wasn't about to throw her to the wolves for her betrayal. That thought gave the former spy a slither of peace. If anything happened to him, Fiona would still have a chance to carry on.

But if Liam might be capable of mercy, Michael wasn't quite so sure about Sean. The youngest male sibling would feel the sting of being deceived far more than any other family member. They had been friends. He had sat and eaten meals with the man's family. Sean was a hothead and a reckless one who frequently acted without thinking, relying on his skills to get him out of any trouble he ran into. Sean just might shoot first and ask questions too late.

The other two brothers Michael knew less about. Seamus was a gunrunner. When he wasn't out of the country trading in weaponry, he was at his farm raising his large brood of children along with his wife, Isabelle. Colin, the family computer whiz, was probably the biggest threat to their escape. The information specialist could hack into any computer system searching for clues and the man was virtually untouchable. As the only gun-shy member of the family, he was always kept away from the action.

"At the first chance we get, we should dump this car and get something different, something with a bit more speed and handling." He spoke out loud, informing his lover of the new plan. "I'm gonna get us as far south as I can while it's dark. Then we'll have to find somewhere to hole up during the day... What do you think?"

Michael maneuvred the saloon car through a series of sharp bends on an unlit country lane while waiting for his girlfriend to reply. But instead of words, he caught a soft sniffle followed by a sniff.

"Fiona, luv, are you alright?"

He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and promise it was all going to be alright. But he couldn't even risk glancing in her direction since he was using all his skills to keep the car they were in from crashing into the stone walls on either side of the narrow, badly constructed road they were hurtling along.

"Ya hold on, me darlin' girl an' I'll get us somewhar safe... D'ya hear me, Fiona?" He tried bringing McBride back. In truth, he liked his Irish persona a lot more than his real self at that moment.

"Jus' shut up! Shut up an' let me alone fer a minute, will ya?" she snapped. "Yer nae McBride, so don' ya go thar with me, Michael Westen!"

It was just as he had feared. Now that the reality of the situation was sinking in, now that she realized the true cost of betraying her family, his Irish lover was regretting her decision. The ex-spy bit his lip and tried to hold back the emotions that were threatening to tear him apart.

He slammed on the brakes, bringing the Toyota to a skidding halt. Twisting in his seat, he caught hold of his lover's arms and turned her to face him. The tears spilling out of her blue-green orbs were leaving trails down her cheeks.

"W-whot ha-ve yar stopped fer?"

"If you want to go back… go back to your family….I know how upset you are. I'm sorry that-"

"Whot tha hell is wrong wit' ya? O' course I'm upset! I shot at me brother an' I did it fer us!"

"That's what I'm talking about. You—"

An open handed slap to his arm was followed by another to his face as more tears flowed down her cheeks. "Ya told me I had ta trust ya, but ya don' trust me! I cannae shed a tear from what's left behind wit'out ya tryin' ta drop me back home? Am pregnant, Michael, God help me, I don' wanna, but _Am gonna cry_, so ya might as well get used ta it. Ar' ya gonna try ta take me back ta me mammy every time Am sad an' missin' har or has this all jus' got ta real _fer ya_?"

His fingers tightened their grip on her biceps as he lunged at her, his lips sealing over her own in a kiss which took her breath away. She stiffened and attempted to pull out of his grasp. But he held onto her, his tongue pressing along her gums, demanding her surrender. He leaned in further and wrapped her in an embrace, doing his best to cradle her in the small space until she melted into him.

He was desperate to show her that she was everything to him. Michael knew he didn't have the words, had never had the words on his own to tell her what she meant to him, so her dark haired lover poured every ounce of the longing and the passion he felt into that embrace, _that kiss…_

"You'll see them again," he whispered when he released her, pressing his lips into her tousled auburn hair as he continued to hold her petite form against his own slightly shaking frame. "It will work out, you'll see...We'll get away and when things calm down -"

"Yer a bad liar, Michael Westen," Fiona mumbled into his chest, all the fight gone out of her. "It'll never be o'er. Ya tol' me thot yarself... It's just us now."

She kissed his chin and then, when he tilted his head downwards, they kissed once more, with less urgency this time but with no less depth of feeling. But the moment couldn't last for long.

"We have to get going," he apologized. "We need a new car and a safe place to sleep."

"Somewhere safe would be nice, Michael," the exhausted redhead agreed. "Somewhere wit' a bath an' fresh sheets would be nicer, but I'm afraid thot is nae gonna happen fer a while, am I right?"

She watched as his pursed his lips and then he grinned at her, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief and when he spoke, there was that sense of style she had been missing. "A bath and fresh linen, is it? Well, how about we make due for now and then, once we get to France, we'll just stop off at the first five star hotel we come to in Paris? How does that sound?"

"Cela semble parfait, ma chérie." She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "Jus' as long as war together, Michael, thot war _in this together_. Thot's all thot matters right now. Just ya and' me…"

"And baby makes three…" he completed the old rhyme and smiled at her warmly, placing his hand over her abdomen, committing once again to protect them both with all he had. "Forever, me luv."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** _Thank you for all the reviews, favorites and alerts for this story; we appreciate each one. The chase is well and truly on now, as Michael and Fiona leave far Dublin behind them, along with several very angry Irishmen. While Tom Card is bound for England, he is not yet out of the pursuit, as he receives some possibly very damaging intel which could tear our favorite couple apart._

**BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL**

**Chapter Four**

Pacing impatiently at the side of the road, Liam Glenanne tried to control his growing fury at his youngest sibling's flagrant insubordination while he waited for his henchman to finish the job of setting the bullet riddled car on fire.

The Mercedes Benz S-class had cost him a small fortune less than a year ago. However, its destruction didn't matter, not when his only remaining sister had not only turned her back on the family, but had done so to be with a man working for the enemy, a piece of shit American who had been spying on them all ever since his arrival in Dublin. His mind reeled as his thoughts turned to what she had risked for the love of a man who was in all likelihood just using her to gain access to PIRA secrets.

He knew better than most what fate awaited his baby sister if her crime became public knowledge and he knew with every fiber of his being he would not allow it to happen. _There would be people lining up for a chance to pull her to pieces for her traitorous act._

Closing his eyes, the head of the clan fought to maintain control of his temper. It was going to be bad enough breaking the news to his mother that her one remaining daughter had been knowingly sleeping with a spy, without the thought of what could still happen if he didn't squash the growing rumors about McBride as quickly as possible.

"Ar' ya nae done yet?" Mr. Glenanne snarled at his bodyguard and trusted friend. "Jesus feckin' Christ, Davy, yer burnin' out a car nae startin' a bloody barbecue! Get yar finger out, man!"

"Ya want it done right, don'cha?" Davy Doyle replied matter of factly. He had been part of Liam's inner circle since his friend had taken over as head of his family and knew the anger that the other man was projecting wasn't aimed at him but rather at the whole situation.

"I want ya ta do whot I pay ya fer... Have ya got me another car yet?"

"War picking it up down by tha underpass." Doyle threw his lighter onto the whiskey-soaked back seat of the once-upon-a-time luxury saloon car.

Liam nodded and turned away from the vehicle as the flames began to lick through the interior and black smoke billowed out the open doors.

"Come on then. We need ta get a move on befer tha Gardai show thar faces. We've still work ta do and not much time ta get it done."

The two men walked away quickly without looking back, even when the flames reached the petrol tank and exploded in a shower of ash and twisted metal. Glancing at his wristwatch, the PIRA's most feared interrogator knew he didn't have long to bring an end to the search for the informer in the Provo's ranks.

_It had been six months earlier that he had been approached by the second in command to the IRA Executive Council and ordered to look into the rumors that were circulating about an informer hiding amongst the PIRA supporters. The council had already drawn up a list of those they suspected and wanted brought in for questioning and, at the time, he hadn't been surprised when he had seen Michael McBride's name amongst all the others. His sister's boyfriend was after all a newcomer to the area and an unknown._

Liam shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets to stop himself from punching the nearest wall and clenched his jaw tightly as he thought of how he had stood in front of one of the highest ranking officers in the PIRA and told the man he had personally checked out every detail of Michael McBride's life and found nothing suspicious.

_It had been a few months later that he had learned the truth. A bartender at the __Wishing Well__, whose family had taken more than a few hits from loyalist paramilitary groups, had been the tenth name on the councils list and, after Sean had reported one of his unit had seen Mr. O'Dowd walk into a suspected MI6 safe house, the decision had been made to bring the man in for a conversation._

_When he had first heard the words from the man's torn and bloody lips, he hadn't believed what he was hearing. Michael McBride was in reality Michael Westen, an American spy on loan from the CIA to the British. He had killed O'Dowd there and then, ending the man's suffering, but more importantly making sure nobody else got to hear his confession._

_Once he had a name, it was easy for Colin, the family computer genius, to confirm everything the bartender had said. He had found the traitor; however, to reveal him would have put Fiona in danger and he couldn't have that. So, while he had tried to come up with a plan which would keep his sister safe from retaliation, __Mr. Glenanne__ had continued to bring in __those whose names were__ on the councils list while he desperately tried to work out what to do._

_He'd hoped his sister would grow bored of her boyfriend. __Unfortunately__, each time he saw her, it seemed she had fallen even deeper in love with spy hiding in their midst. __This__ had then led to him thinking that maybe there was a chance to turn McBride. After all, the man had in truth done nothing to interfere with PIRA activities and had in fact been instrumental in further the councils agenda of seeing the REAL IRA dismantled._

_If he did truly return Fiona's love, then just maybe he could convince the American to change sides. But that thought had only lasted as long as it took for him to realize that it was impossible. Accepting Westen into their family would put everybody at risk. They would never be able to truly trust the spy and if their secret was discovered..._

"What are ya thinkin', Liam?" Davy asked as they neared the underpass.

"Wa're goin' back ta talk wit' Mulholland. Am gonna get thot little bastard ta make a full confession an' then am gonna hand ham o'er as tha rat, him an' tha corpse o' thot scum O'Dowd... It should be enough ta stop tha gossip an' give us a breathing space ta find Fiona an' make har see sense."

"And McBride?"

"Oh, he's a dead man, Davy. Thot Yank prick jus' don' know it yet."

**()()()()()**

Unwilling to risk going with their original plan of leaving a false trail through Dublin now that the Glenannes had joined in the chase, the fugitive couple continue to flee westward out of Dublin and towards the faraway Atlantic Coast, Michael wringing every inch of speed out of the stolen Toyota that he could.

Staying on the back roads where there was less chance of accidentally running into law enforcement and no chance of being captured on a traffic cameras or CCTV, they were making good time. That is until the flash of a light on the console in front of the steering wheel warned the former spy that the Corolla was nearly out of fuel.

"Fi, we're gonna have to change vehicles, this one's done."

The sleepy redhead sat up straighter in her seat and took a moment to get her bearings. Staring out of the wind shield at the small bit of road being lit up by the vehicle's headlights, she asked hopefully, "Have we left tham behind? Whar are we?"

"Five miles outside Portlaoise... I was hoping we'd make it to Limerick in a straight run, but that's not gonna to happen."

"I think we can risk filling this thing up." Fiona yawned. "Yar fergettin' war in tha countryside. Any CCTV footage will be saved ta tape if tha cameras ar' workin' in tha first place an' any alerts sent out won't be looked at 'til tha mornin' staff come in."

_It had been Michael's decision to make the journey to Limerick, hoping that they could convince the multitude of intelligence agencies __and paramilitaries__ chasing them to focus their search around Shannon Airport, with its many international flights, and the docks in Limerick, with its __multitude__ of ships and small boats._

"It's too risky." The dark haired man shook his head. "We'll -"

"Ta risky? Ya worry taa much, Michael Westen... I'll get us a second car an' we'll drive both ta tha airport. Think about it, it makes sense. When they find this un, they'll be searchin' fer another vehicle stolen fram nearby. They won' take any notice o' a car stolen fram so far away. It could be enough ta convince 'em all we've got outta tha country."

He thought about it. The plan had merits; however, it would mean they would have to split up and he needed her to be at his side. "It'll be safer if we're together."

"Safer yar say?... Would ya be talkin' about risk an' how safe it wa' if I wa' nae pregnant?" she challenged him.

"But you _are_ pregnant, an -" He stopped talking as a hard fist struck his bicep.

"And I'm still tha same person I wa' yesterday, tha same woman ya threw down on our bed an' -"

"Okay, okay I get it." He flushed as his mind flashed back to their last time together, until a sharp stab of guilt reminded him that he had made love to her believing that in a few hours he would be leaving her behind forever. "We'll do it your way."

Sitting in the Toyota, Michael kept watch as the petite Irishwoman ran swiftly across the car park attached to Portlaoise Heritage Hotel, a magnificent stone fronted building set amongst trees and upon a wide lawn. Chewing on his bottom lip, with his handgun resting on his lap, all he could do was stare after her as Fiona disappeared in between the rows of neatly parked vehicles.

He had told her to take whatever she fancied from the hotel parking lot. Tom Card would have had him concentrate on the theft of small, unexceptional vehicles which would attract little attention. His former training officer was just arrogant enough to believe his star pupil would stick to _his_ training protocols, forgetting that his student had spent the last eight years learning a few tricks of his own. Michael smiled wolfishly at the thought of pitting his skills against those of his first mentor in the art of trade craft.

In less than five minutes, the former terrorist came into sight behind the wheel of a dark-colored Series 5 BMW, the V8 engine purring as the red headed thief drove past with a broad grin lighting up her features. Following behind the high performance, high priced vehicle the spy kept a wary eye on the petrol gauge, which had gone from showing one flashing bar on the display to none.

The first service station they came to was in darkness and the doors securely locked shut to the shop and the control panels for the fuel pumps. But there was no lock that Michael Westen couldn't pick and, in this case, no antiquated alarm system he couldn't disarm.

Once inside, he went in search of the switch which would turn on the single pump on the small forecourt. Before leaving, he snatched up a couple of plastic bags and started to throw in as much food as he could from the sparsely stocked shelves. A loaf of bread, butter, cheese, ham and soups soon filled one bag and then another was loaded with a variety of fruits and salad. Running out to the Corolla, he placed the bags on the back seat and then went back for more. Finding what he really needed, a cooler chest and a couple of bags of ice to keep things cold, he went back for more.

Bottles of water and milk went into a third bag, along with paper plates, plastic cutlery, toilet rolls, and packets of batteries filling a fourth. Just as he was about to leave, he came to a stop and went back to the magazine rack and snatched up several volumes. Pulling out a roll of notes, he left fifty punts on the counter top. Closing the door to the shop, he then placed these bags next to the others.

Glancing over to where Fiona was glaring at him for taking so long, he waved to his lover before beginning the task of filling up the empty petrol tank on the Toyota. They now had two fuelled up vehicles, plenty of supplies and a plan which just might work. When they left the small town of Portlaoise, Michael was beginning to feel a small glimmer of hope.

**()()()()()**

Sean Glenanne had been in the middle of dishing out a little bit of PIRA justice on a major drug smuggler who had been responsible for a vast amount of the cocaine for sale on the streets of Belfast when he had received a phone call from his older brother. Leaving his unit to finish the job of making sure the man would never return to Northern Ireland to ply his trade, the youngest Glenanne male had jumped into his car and driven as fast as he could back across the border to his home in Dublin.

"_I need ya ta drop whotever it is yer up ta an' get o'er ta our Mam's fer breakfast." Liam had spoke as soon as he'd answered the call._

"_Am workin', Liam, yer gonna have ta -"_

"_Whot is it wit' tha lotta ya, I swear - Jus' do as yar feckin' told. Fiona has run off wit' McBride."_

"_Jesus, Liam... Will ya leave 'em alone? McBride t'ain't as bad as ya make ham out ta be. Can we nae let har be happy?" He was just thinking that he liked and trusted his little sister's latest boyfriend when Liam added._

"_Ya know whot Am workin' on, whot I've been doin' these las' few months? Am tellin' ya, McBride is tha man I've been lookin' fer... D'ya get me now, brudder? Now get yar arse back home an' tha next one o' ya ta tell me whot a nice feller thot bastid is, I'll swing fer ya."_

Making it back to his own home in Dublin in record time, Sean let himself in through the front door, switched off the house alarm and then ran upstairs. Flinging open his bedroom door, he came to an abrupt stop when he saw his wife sitting up in bed pointing her .22 semi-automatic hand gun at him.

"Ya said ya wouldnae be home tonight." Rosanna Glenanne made the gun safe and placed it back in the drawer next to her side of the bed.

"Have yar heard fram Fi?" the sandy haired Irishman snapped at his young wife.

"No, not fer -" Her words were cut off as her husband of three years crossed the room and grabbed hold of her arm, shaking her roughly.

"Are ya sure, Rosie? This is important... When d'ya las' talk ta har? Whot did she say ta ya?"

"Let go o' me!" The young blond knocked her husband's hand away and then used two hands to push him back so she could get out of the bed. "Whot's got inta, Sean? Yer gonna wake tha babbies wit' ya shoutin'." She slipped her dressing gown over her nightie and grabbed hold of her husband's arm. "We're goin' downstairs an' then ya can explain why yer assaulting yar wife."

She gave him no choice if he wanted to continue questioning her but to follow her out of the bedroom and back downstairs and into the the kitchen. Switching on the light, Rosanna turned to face the man who had never raised a hand to her before tonight and then gasped as soon as she saw his expression.

"Whot's happened?" She was instantly in front of him, one soft hand cupping his bristle-covered cheek.

Wrapping his arms around his wife's slender waist, the older man dropped his head down to bury his face in Rosie's wavy blonde hair. For a moment, he couldn't speak. Anger was now mixing with sadness and a growing fear at what his sister's actions was going to bring down on them all.

"Sean, Sean baby..." Rosanna gently teased her husband's head off her shoulder and held his face between her palms. "Whot's happened? Yer scaring me ta death... Whot's happened ta Fiona?"

Letting out a long shuddering sigh, Sean straightened up and pulled himself together. Taking hold of his spouse's fingers he looked deeply into her eyes. "Yer ta pack bags fer you an' tha kiddies. War ta be at me Mum's place fer breakfast."

He watched as Rosanna's complexion paled, her eyes filling with unshed tears.

"Tis bad?" Her voice quivered.

"Aye, am not sure how bad. But Liam wants us at our Mammy's. We'll find out more then... Donnae be scared, sweetheart. It'll work out, Fi's not hurt, but -" He shook his sandy head and, instead of telling his wife the worst of it, he kissed her. "We'll know more once we see Liam."

This was the first time that he'd had to remind himself that Rosie hadn't been brought up in this life.

Born and raised in East London, her father a staunch supporter of the Cause, he had met her when he was still recovering from the death of his youngest sister and she was not quite seventeen and in awe of the IRA man staying in her parent's spare room.

He had asked her father for permission to marry his daughter on the night of her seventeenth birthday and then six months later he had taken his pregnant bride back home to Ireland. She hadn't even handled a gun until Seamus had given her the .22 she now kept in the bedroom as a eighteenth birthday present and even then she hadn't learnt to fire it until after the birth of their daughter a month later. Her childhood hadn't been filled with armed assailants kicking down the front door.

"Am sorry I scared ya, darlin'. But I need ya ta get ready ta go while I see ta some business... Ya okay now, Rosie?"

"Sure..." She tried to sound brave. "Ya want me ta pack fer ya ta?" Her strange mix of accents spoke volumes about how totally _not_ okay she really was.

"Aye, now get away wit ya an' let me get on wit' me work."

As soon as his wife was on her way upstairs, Sean went into the cupboard under the stairs and right at the back he pulled up the floor boards, accessing the hiding place of a long hard case. Pulling the item out, he fixed the boards back in place and then carried the case into the kitchen. On the counter top, he unclipped the locks and opened the lid, revealing an American made SR-25 sniper rifle.

Fiona might boast of her skills at long distant killing; however, he was just as good as his little sister and, if he got the opportunity, he was going to show her exactly how good he was with a bullet through the back of her lover's head.

**()()()()()**

As soon as the lights of Shannon Airport came into sight, Fiona pulled off the road and waited until Michael drew up behind her. Tight lipped, the couple quickly transferred the bags of supplies into the the back of the BMW.

"Come back ta me..." The Irishwoman requested, wrapping her arms about the waist of her dark haired lover and burrowing her head against his chest.

"I'm just going to leave the Toyota where it's going to be easily found and then make sure I get my face seen on one of the cameras near the airport. I'm not going inside. Believe me, I'm more worried about you waiting out here in the open." Michael placed a kiss on the top of her head and then stepped out of her arms. "You give me twenty minutes and if I'm not back, you leave here, you go home and tell your family – tell your family I tricked you."

Her hand shot out, her fingers bunching up on the front of his jacket to pull him close again, her blue-green orbs blazing fiercely. "Am givin' yar_ ten minutes_, an' if I donnae see ya comin' back ta me, Am gonna come get ya."

She watched the rise and fall of his Adam's apple as he gulped. "Dinnae test me, Michael Westen," the flame haired ex-guerilla ordered. "Now go befer I change me mind an' decide this job is _ta risky_ fer ya," she smirked.

"Glad to know you'll miss me." He drew her into his arms so swiftly it made her gasp and that made it easier for him to deepen the kiss that he pressed onto her lips.

When the father of her child slipped away to leave their former piece of transport where it would be easily found, Ms. Glenanne turned back to their new vehicle and the supplies now sitting on the back seat along with their bag of weapons and money.

Searching through one bag, she came up with a juicy red apple, which she bit into as she spotted the magazines. Curious as to what her lover had chosen as reading material, she pulled out the glossy journals and spread them out on the hood of the Beemer.

_Practical Parenting, Mother and Baby, Pregnancy and Birth_...At that moment, the petite redhead couldn't help the smile of wonder or the warm glow of love which filled her. Picking up one of the magazines, she sat down in the car and opened the cover of the first publication.

Michael was back at her side in just over fifteen minutes. She had spotted him a few minutes earlier, just another shadow moving swiftly amongst the dense decorative foliage which marked the boundary to the airfield.

Dropping the magazines onto the back seat, she started up the engine as he reached the driver's door. "Move over, and I'll drive," he offered, his hand already pulling on the latch.

"I'll drive, Mc- Michael Westen... Ya need ta rest."

"I'm fine, Fi."

"So am I, so get in tha other side or I'll leave ya behind."

To make her point, she revved the engine and slipped the clutch to let the powerful car jump forward. Smiling broadly, she watched him run around and slip into the passenger seat.

"An' now ya can have a bite ta eat... I've already helped me self ta an apple an' a banana."

As she set off in the general direction of Tipperary on the next leg of their flight eastward, she glanced out of the corner of her eye as Michael twisted around and reached into the back, smiling softly when she saw his hand hesitate over the magazines.

"Ya surprised me, Michael. I thought _Guns & Ammo_ or _Soldier o' Fortune_ wa' more yar thing."

"I- er -" He gulped and flushed red. "I thought we should at least begin to learn about what we're getting ourselves into.

"Aye, tis a good thought. D'ya think tham magazines have any advice fer spies runnin' off wit' thar pregnant assets whilst har family's chasing tham down?" Her tone was playful and he smiled back.

"Well, it certainly never came up during any of my training courses at the Farm," he added and then had just a momentary flash of what would have happened if it had, which made him smile wider.

**()()()()()**

As soon as Tom Card stepped off the plane and into the airport terminal at Heathrow, he switched his phone on and put a call through to his friend in DC. During his time as a training officer at Langley, Mr. Card had developed a relationship with one of the CIA's top recruiters.

They had been part of the new CIA, the one which had risen from the ashes of the scandals of the mid nineteen seventies and went from being agents in the field to finding the next generation of agents and training them to be top flight operatives, as most of the old guard were quietly and not so quietly, being put out to pasture. The rise of Michael Westen had brought both men kudos from the higher-ups. William Raines had been promoted to Assistant Director of Operations and Tom had been expecting a promotion any day now. But all that was in jeopardy, _thanks to their star pupil._

"So what do you have for me, Bill? Have you managed to make the Brits back off and let me do my job?" Ahead of him Card could see two men dressed in suits waiting beside the baggage claim, his sharp eyes picking out the muscular frames disguised by good tailoring.

"Sorry, Tom, I've talked to two guys who owe me favors in the State Department and they both said the same thing. The peace process is too important. You're just going to have to suck it up and play nice with everyone involved."

"That's _not_ what I wanted to hear, Bill." He slowed his steps, not wanting his waiting escort listen in on his conversation.

"Well, how about this? I found out this isn't the first time Westen has gotten himself into woman trouble. I've just had a conversation with Siebels, you remember our boy's handler? And he just told me that according to the woman, Westen is engaged to another one of his asset. This one's in Russia, name's Samantha Keyes. She's a master thief that Michael has been running for a couple of years."

Card contained his anger at his former student's total lack of judgement and self-control over sleeping with his assets because his mind was already working out how he was going to use this latest piece of intel.

"Get her on a flight to the UK. I want to interview the future Mrs. Westen as soon as possible."

Bill Raines' chuckle was crystal clear over the cell phone's earpiece.

"I thought you'd say that. I've already arranged to have her picked up."

**()()()()()**

After finishing his own meal of a hastily put together ham sandwich and a piece of fruit, Michael took a light catnap as ordered by the redhead behind the wheel of their stolen car.

"_I know these roads a lot better than ya, so shut yar eyes an' stop yar complainin'."_ Knowing that to argue was an exercise in futility, the former spy rested his head back and let his eyes slide shut.

When he next opened them, the sky was just beginning to lighten, meaning dawn was only an hour away at most. "Sorry, I only meant to rest for an hour. What time is it?" He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and tried to concentrate on the road ahead of them.

"War twenty miles fram Waterford... Are ya sure this is a good idea? Won't yar masters have people lookin' fer ya at tha Euro port?"

"Yes, they'll have all the ports covered. But we're not going anywhere; we're just going to lie low and wait them out. Right now they'll be pursuing us with everything at their disposal, but in a couple of weeks, they'll have to start pulling people off the details to deal with other cases and that's when we'll slip by them."

"Thot's all well and good. But I can guarantee ya, me family won't get bored and give up."

"One problem at a time, Fi... Hey, pull over…" He pointed out of the window to where a weathered and faded _For Sale_ sign was sticking out from an overgrown hedge. "Let's take a look."

Climbing out of the car and stretching, the couple scanned the long road and, once satisfied there were no other cars to be seen, they ran across the road.

Behind the high unkempt foliage was a small stone cottage. Part of the roof appeared to have collapsed and the windows were dark with dust and dirt.

"It's gonna be a mess inside," Fiona commented.

"Not all the roof has caved in and here, look at the foliage. Nobody's been out here for months." He carefully pushed his way through into the garden and saw that at the back of the property was a small yard with a couple of ramshackle outbuildings. "We can leave the car back here. It'll be out of sight."

It took them several minutes to make a path which the car could fit through and then even longer to camouflage the route taken so that to anybody passing by, the place looked undisturbed. With the vehicle safely concealed, the couple went to the back door and with the skillful use of a tire iron, Michael broke the rusted lock on the surprisingly substantial oak door.

Once inside, they moved slowly around the ground floor. The kitchen was small with an old enamel sink, a rickerty table and the cabinets were half hanging off the wall. Next door was a cozy living room, still with an old couch before what would have several years ago been an inviting open fire hearth. There was a sense of sadness to the place, what was once a home was now long abandoned.

Standing amongst the dirt and dust with cobwebs trailing across the corners, Fiona let out a soft sigh. "Ya know whot this place reminds me of?"

Michael slipped an arm over her shoulders, drawing her against his side. "That old farmhouse we stayed in on our way to Derry... Your old family home where we..."

The Irishwoman turned to face him, her fingers combing through his tousled hair. "Tha first time we made love," she finished his sentence before standing up on her tiptoes, her whole body pressing up against his just so she could steal kiss. "I think it could be fate."

The petite woman laughed and turned away, heading for the wooden staircase leading to the upper floor.

"Be careful, Fi! That staircase might be rotted." the former spy called out.

"Then tis a good thing Am goin' first since ya weigh a ton, Michael Westen," she declared disappearing into the hallway on the second floor.

"We should get everything inside; it's gonna be light soon."

"Michael, thar's a big double bed up har, and -oh!"

He'd been on his way to the back door when she'd shouted down to him and, at the _"oh,"_ he turned and raced up the stairs with his gun drawn.

He almost fell over coming to a stop at the sight of the woman he would die for shaking out a large white sheet. "Tha previous owner musta died or gone inta a home or somethin' cuz I think this place wa' just locked up. I jus' found a drawer full o' sheets an' blankets."

Taking a moment to let his heart rate slow down, he looked around the room, noting the bed appeared to be in decent shape and cleaner than he expected. The happily smiling Irishwoman who was gazing back at him raised her eyebrows at his slightly panicked expression.

"When you shouted like that, I thought -"

"Thought whot? Thot an SAS team had just parachuted in through tha window? Come on, I'll show ya what I've found. Along wit' tha bed and sheets, thar is a hole in that bathroom ceiling which we could use as an emergency exit." She led him through into the adjoining room. "We can stay up har all day an' be safe. Whot d'ya think?"

Michael ran an eye over the small upstairs space and nodded his ascent. _This could work_. Once they had their supplies with them on the upper floor, they could rig a couple of tripwires to warn them of any unwelcome guests. They would need to check the plumbing and make sure it was still working.

"I think you're right."

When daylight came, the small abandoned cottage looked to any passers-by the same as it had this time last year. However, inside the former spy and the ex-guerrilla had turned it into their little haven from the stress and the dangers of the outside world. It had taken a bit of trade craft, cleaning and cleverness to arrange things such that they were as comfortable and as safe as they could be.

Lying on an old mattress which was not dissimilar to the one they'd left behind in Dublin, covered by a sheet and several blankets, the young couple lie spooned up against one another, fully clothed and wrapped in each other's arms after having washed up as best they could.

"Well, we'll have to try for a bath at the next place," he remarked and pressed little kisses onto the top of her head. "At least the sheets are clean and we're safe."

"Aye," she agreed, stifling a yawn. "But Am still holdin' out fer me five star Paris hotel room."

"We'll get there, Fi, I promise."

"I know we will, Michael, cuz Am gonna kick yar arse if we donnae," the redhead declared sleepily.

"If ya go ta sleep, me luv, ya can kick me arse all tha way across tha Channel in yar dreams, darlin'."

Instead of complaining about the re-emergence of Irish lover's persona, Fiona sighed, closed her eyes and let sleep take her. She dreamed that the little cottage was once again in good repair and that she and Michael were sitting cozy on the couch downstairs before a roaring fire, safe and warm from the snow outside, cuddled up together while a dark haired little boy slept on his father's lap.

And then they kissed.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **_Thank you to everyone for their patience in waiting for this chapter as well as the next installment of __Life with Larry,__ which will be posted as usual on Thursday after #BurnerClub. _

_Real Life has been a little too intense, though nowhere near as bad as it is for our hero. Michael is in such a terrible place with his mentor in that chapter that we both need a breath of fresh air before continuing to work on that very dark and intense story in Serbia. _

_So, once again we thank you all for the favorites, follows, reading and reviewing of our efforts. As the forces working against our star crossed lovers continue to gather, can they find a moment of peace and rest in their little cottage hideout in the Irish countryside?_

**BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL**

Chapter Five

_Tom Card's jaw ached from maintaining a professional smile for so many hours at a time, especially after so little sleep. His head pounded with an excruciating pain coming from behind his eyes after having to spend a whole morning in the company of British politicians and civil servants. He remembered now why he'd let Raines talk him into coming out of the field and becoming a training officer so soon after starting his career at the Company._

"_If there is any justice in this world, those bureaucrats in Whitehall and particularly those residing inside the Ministry of Defense will find a special place in hell reserved for just for them when they get to the other side," _the senior agent had silently raged. Thoughts of speeding them on their journey to the afterlife followed soon thereafter. It was probably a really good thing he hadn't been armed.

From his early morning arrival at London/Heathrow Airport, he had been whisked straight through passport control by two agents from the US Embassy and taken back to the secret facility that the Agency maintained below said embassy to check in and freshen up. Then promptly at nine AM, Tom Card had been chauffeured to the Parliament buildings to speak with several high ranking officials in the Ministry of Defense. He had been joined at the meeting by an aide to the US Ambassador, whom he'd hoped had been there to add some weight to his request to run the search for his former star pupil personally.

Jack Kovich, the ambassador's aide, had in fact been no help whatsoever. The young man, who was making his way up the diplomatic ladder, had stuck to the official US State Department line, which unfortunately followed exactly the same line as British policy. As a result, he'd found himself facing something more akin to an inquisition than an exchange of information with a friendly government. With everyone looking for someone to blame, the US intelligence officer had certainly felt there was a bulls-eye painted on his back.

"Prime Minister Blair places _great importance_ on a lasting peace in Northern Ireland. He sees it as his legacy, to achieve something no other Prime Minister has managed," the Home Secretary had informed him bluntly.

This had been followed by the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland adding, "The process is at a critical stage. The Provisional IRA has agreed to talks regarding disarmament. This is a very big step. You have no idea, sir, how much time has gone into coming to an agreement which all sides can sell to their supporters. So you see, we cannot allow one rogue CIA operative to put all our work at risk." The middle aged woman had smiled primly at him, her mouth set in a firm line and he could tell that the peace process was just as important to her as it was to the Prime Minister.

Then they had then settled down to quizzing him about _his agent's_ motives for refusing to follow an order to end the assignment. They had Richard Chambers' reports, mission briefs and Michael's communication logs. Over cups of tea and biscuits, as they'd insisted on calling the selection of cookies that appeared on a silver tray positioned in the middle of the table, the questions had flowed fast on the subject of Michael Westen, CIA spy.

At the end of several hours of being forced to defend the training and moral fortitude of CIA operatives in general and his former protégée in particular, the two senior members of the PM Cabinet office had gotten to their feet and, after shaking his hand firmly to emphasize their displeasure with the whole sordid affair, they had left him in the company of three men who had only been introduced to him as MoD officials.

"_Mr. Card, my name is Mason Gilroy."_

Agent Card shivered again, as he remembered when the young man with cold dead eyes dressed in an immaculate Versace suit had stepped forward. Gilroy was fast becoming a living legend. He had been a professional spy. He was now a freelance assassin who could be working for Russia one week and some South American despot the next. "I've been called into assist in the hunt for your missing operative."

It had been all he could do to keep the smile on his face. _What the hell were the Brits up to lending him the services of such a notorious wet work specialist?_

"Pleased to have you on board, Mr. Gilroy," he greeted the man, even though he was far from pleased at the thought of having the assassin following him around. "I have some other business to attend to and then I'll be heading back to Belfast _tomorrow_ morning. So, I'll see you there." _The urge to turn and run out of the room had been almost overwhelming._

"_Wouldn't miss it for the world, old man," _Gilroy's reply had floated after him as he made his way briskly along the corridor, breathing a sigh of relief to be away from the man.

Looking over at Kovich, who was accompanying him back to the US Embassy, Card didn't have to wonder why on earth the young man was following him around. He knew perfectly well it was to report back to the State Department that he was following the company line.

One other thing he was sure of. If the Brits were bringing in a killer of Gilroy's repute, it had to mean that back home in Langley, they were getting ready to burn the man who'd been at the top of his class. The sandy haired man sighed. _This was exactly what he had been trying to prevent when he'd jumped on a last minute flight to the Emerald Isle._

"Mr. Card..." Kovich held up his phone. "I've just gotten a call. Your _guest_ has arrived from Moscow. She's being held in a secure room, waiting for you."

_Finally, some good news.._. If he could get Samantha Keyes on his side, he just might be able to extricate Michael from the hole he had dug himself into before Mason Gilroy and all the other people competing to kill him got a chance to put a bullet into the soon-to-be former agent. If making the rogue spy see sense and straightening out this sorry situation got him his promotion into Operations, then he'd consider this pigscrew of a predicament worth it. Otherwise, he'd have to see to it that Mr. Westen's failures did not reflect on him.

_()()()()()_

It was mid-afternoon before Fiona began to slowly surface from a deep sleep. Still feeling the fatigue caused by a night on the run, she snuggled down under the blankets covering her body and willed herself to ignore the call of her bladder to climb out from the warmth and face what was left of the day.

_She was so damned tired_... Staying up all night never used to affect her like this, leaving her exhausted and weak. Memories of the previous night crept into her mind and, without conscious thought, her right hand slid down from where it had been resting under her pillow to settle over her belly. She was pregnant, on the run from her family, with a man she barely knew and a telephone book sized list of enemies. To add to her misery, Ms. Glenanne remembered clearly how she had not only pointed a gun at her brother, she had sent a warning shot close to his feet and then disabled his car.

Her blue-green eyes flew open as Fiona fought against a rising tide of nausea, which was not only caused by her new found status as a mother to be, but also as every fiber of her body and soul railed against what she had done. The Irishwoman had turned her back on her family for the love of an American spy and the baby she was carrying. Amongst the PIRA, she would be considered no different than the touts who informed to the British or the constabulary and she could expect to be treated exactly the in the same manner.

A shiver ran up and down her spine and the young woman turned to her lover. Rolling over under the covers, she reached out for the touch of the man she had sacrificed so much to be with. Only he was gone, the sheets were cold and the pillow showing only the barest signs of an indentation. Sitting up, the still lithe lass looked about, her heart beating faster in her chest as her normally logical mind went off at a wild tangent, feeding into her fears that one day Michael Westen would abandon her.

Clearing her throat, she called out. "Michael...?"

"I'm here, Fi." His voice floated out from just outside the bedroom door.

Slipping on her boots, the tousle haired redhead found her man on the small landing at the top of the stairs staring out of the window, his gaze fixed on the road and the fields beyond the cottage's overgrown perimeter.

"Hey..." she breathed softly and stepped up to his side. Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed his stubble covered cheek. "Could ya nae sleep?"

"I got two or three hours..." He slipped an arm around her waist to hold her close to his side while his lips brushed against her forehead.

"Thot isn't enough. Ya should try ta rest." Even as she spoke, she could tell he was barely hearing her, all his concentration on the peaceful view out of the cracked pane of the dirt encrusted window.

"Wa're safe har." Reaching up, Fiona cupped his cheek and drew his face around until she had his full attention. "It's safe, we made it safe, remember? An' Am not tha only one who needs ta rest."

"I'm fine, Fi." Michael smiled back at her. But it was a poor effort if he was trying to convince her all was well and it did absolutely nothing to hide how tired he really was.

"Give me a minute..." She looked over the bathroom, her bladder suddenly reminding her of the reason she had woke up in the first place. "While I freshen up."

Finding the stopcock under the old sink and switching the water back on had been a risk they had both agreed was worth taking. Luckily, the pipes in the dilapidated cottage were sound and, though the water was most likely unfit to drink, it did mean they had water to wash in and a working toilet.

When she returned several minutes later, the former spy was exactly where she'd left him, staring moodily out of the window, so lost in his own thoughts he didn't even acknowledge her presence back at his side.

_McBride would have swept her up in his arms or slammed her back against the wall. Her Irish lover would have been ravishing her lips and throat with kisses and had her half naked in the blink of an eye_.

The fiery former terrorist sighed, her fingers reaching for the shell of her wild Kilkenny lad before her hand dropped back to her side. It was just now becoming clear to her that even after she had discovered his true identity, the real Michael Westen had still hidden himself behind the persona of Michael McBride.

In a fit of pique, she kicked his ankle hard enough to draw a yelp.

"Come wit' me," she demanded and then, when he didn't move, she caught hold of his hand and pulled him towards the bedroom. "I said, _come wit' me."_

"Fi, somebody has to keep-"

"Wa've put trip wires on all tha doors." Fiona tugged harder on his arm when he resisted. "And ya recall tha windows ar' all nailed shut... We also have an escape route outta tha skylight in tha bathroom." As soon as she had him where she wanted him, the little Irish minx tilted her hip and threw her lover onto the bed.

Then, before he could react, she pounced upon Michael, landing astride his thighs with her hands pushing down on his chest to keep him pinned.

"Ya need ta relax." She paused, waiting for a response. But when he remained still, she sat up while her fingers reached for the buttons on his shirt. "An' _I_ can think o' only one way ta make sure ya get relaxed enough ta get some sleep."

"Fi, no…" His hands settled over hers. "We can't-"

Shifting awkwardly, Michael managed to sit up and stop the flame haired siren above him ruining another shirt. "I – er, I mean, we..."

Ms. Glenanne stared back at him, watching his expression, confused at his refusal to blow off some steam. He gave her a half smile and changed his grip on her hands, so he could stroke a work hardened palm over her cheek.

"We have to stay alert and be ready to move at any moment. If we -"

"It never stopped ya befer." She tilted her head to the side, a pout forming on her lips. "I can name maybe a dozen time thot ya -"

He blushed and dropped his eyes and all she could think was this cold logical man wasn't McBride nor was he the Michael Westen she had known for the past ten months.

"That was different. That was - well, you know what it was... But we're not just being chased by an army patrol or even the RUC. _Everybody_ is coming for us now and they'll be coming at us with _everything_ they've got."

She kissed him, kissed the words away, pressing her tongue against his teeth to stop the things flowing out of his mouth. Her fingernails racked across his scalp as his arms finally folded around her. _She knew what was wrong. He was worried by everything they faced_.

Well, she would be too except one thing she had learned from a lifetime under the threat of violence and death was _you had to grab what you could and have no regrets, no worries_.

"Wa're safe," she gasped when they broke the kiss, her hands ghosting over his cheeks and throat before rubbing over the front of his shirt. "Wa're safe an wa're free and, right now, nobody knows wa're here."

They tumbled back onto the mattress with their limbs entwined and lips locked in a passionate kiss. For a short while, they lost themselves in the heat of the moment, strengthening their bonds of love. They might not have known one another very long, but from the first time they had come together on the dance floor that night in Belfast, from the first time they had kissed, each of their hearts had recognized the other as its missing half.

"Could ya nae take it easy on me clothes, luv?" he whispered as their mouths parted and her hands reached for the front of his garment. She smiled to see the light of McBride's good humor come alive in Michael Westen's eyes. "I dinnae bring thot many shirts wit' me."

So, shirt buttons survived strong slender fingers and a pale blue woolen jumper and the bra underneath were merely pushed out of the way this time in an effort to reach the bare skin underneath. Michael might have refused to completely lose his trousers and Fiona thought him daft if his idea that her jeans being twisted about her ankles and boots was any safer than just taking them off. But they still managed to make love nonetheless, despite the extra entanglements of their normally discarded clothing. If it gave her lover enough peace of mind to relax so that they could come together in the quiet of their cottage hideaway, safe for the moment from the forces outside bend on their capture, then so be it.

()()()()()

Maeve Glenanne watched the last of her children drive away from her home, on their way back to their own homes in an effort to show the world that nothing was wrong. The tiny birdlike woman closed the large oak door and slipped all the locks into place. For a moment, she stood with one slender hand on the polished wood. _How had it come to this?_

Refusing to let the strange mixture of sadness and cold fury overtake her, the elderly matron made her way back to the large farmhouse kitchen where earlier that day her eldest son had sat her down and had then torn her heart out of her chest.

_Where had they gone wrong?_

Fiona had always been her daddy's girl and hadn't she joined Sean to lead the troopers who had killed their eldest brother into a trap for Liam to exact revenge? _Tha girl knew tha rules... She knew har fate fer loving tha wrong man... She coulda had har pick o' partners_.

Maeve picked up the kettle, intending to fill it with water, and then changed her mind. Instead of a soothing cup of tea, she reached up into one of the wall cabinets and placed a half full bottle of Wild Geese classic blend Irish whiskey on the long wooden table that had pride of place in the kitchen. Sitting down at that table, she poured herself a triple...

_Tha lass had never been one ta take tha easy path. Fiona wa' ferever gettin' harself inta difficulties wit' har head strong ways. But this… this wa' close ta breaking har family's heart_.

Lifting the tumbler, she stared morosely at the amber liquid. When her beloved husband Patrick had died in prison, she had held herself together with hatred and the burning desire for revenge. She had stood side by side with Liam as he built the bomb that her oldest son Patrick Jr had delivered to the gates of Long Kesh Gaol.

Then when her oldest boy had been murdered by the British, who had broken into her house and terrorized her other children in their very own home, she'd bottled her feelings away because the wee ones had needed her to be strong. Finally, Claire's death had come close to breaking her, her golden angel cut down and left to suffocate on her own blood...

The elderly Irishwoman took a long fortifying gulp of the spirit. She couldn't bear even the thought of losing another of her children, her only other little girl…

She took another large swallow, emptying the glass and then slamming it down hard on the wooden surface. _How could Fiona have done this ta them all? Gone against tha cause tha whole family had been wrapped up in fer nearly ninety years, tha cause three generations o' Glenannes had spilt blood fer? How could she have run off, nae jus' wit' some lad thot took her fancy, but wit' an American and an American spy at thot?_

Wiping a hand over her face, the matriarch of the clan sucked in a deep breath_. _

"_Fiona has run off wit' Michael McBride. They left thot flat o' thar's an' took off." _

That was how Liam had broken the news to her in his own blunt way. But her oldest boy hadn't been done delivering the bad tidings by any stretch of her imagination.

"_If thot wa' all thar war ta it, then it wouldnae be so bad... But Michael McBride is nae a lad fram Kilkenny. He's really some yank named Michael Westen and he's workin' fer tha British no less." _Then her son had delivered the final blow_. "An' Fiona's known fer quite a while. She tol' me so herself… right befer she shot me Merc ta pieces an' ran off."_

"_Ya have ta get har back,"_ she'd gasped, her hand resting over her heart to stop it bursting out of her chest. _"Who else knows? Ya have ta get har back, me boy, now befer tha word gets out."_ She'd had visions of her daughter's broken body being found somewhere public, a warning to anyone else thinking about betraying the PIRA.

She'd listened as the man in charge of the clan had explained everything he was doing to track down his sister. They had people covering all the ways off the Isle and other people checking out all the known safe houses and hiding places that Fiona might try to use.

"_An' whot about Mc – this Westen fella? Do we know whot he's playin' at?"_ she'd asked.

"_Thot's tha bit thot makes no sense,"_ Liam had admitted, frustrated that he had no idea. _"At tha flat, they'd left two fellers beat near ta deat, an then fram whot I heard Mc – Westen crashed the car he wa' in, busted up tha driver pretty bad an' jumped inta another car Fiona wa' drivin'... None o' it makes a bit o' sense... Unless the man's gone native."_

"An yer sure them boys warn't Provo or any o' tha other factions?" she'd pressed.

"_Am sure... I think they wa' either Special Branch or even MI6. I heard someone say they wa' English. So, he's attacked his own…" _The spy's actions were still a puzzle to him.

"_So, his Brit masters tried ta pull ham out an' he refused ta go? An' now Fiona has run away wit' ham?"_ She'd sighed as she tried to make some sense of the mess her daughter had gotten herself into. _"An' whot about tha Brit's? How do they feel about losin' a man?"_

"_Thot's tha thing… As far as I can find out, thar doin' nothin'... I thought they'd be outin' Fi as a traitor straight away, ya know, ta cause some dissension amongst tha Provo. They like nothin' more than when wa're fightin' amongst ourselves."_

"_When's tha next round o' meetin's takin' place? Ya know between -"_

"_Next week…Some Yank ambassador is comin' o'er ta talk wit' Sinn Fein. Ya think they wanta keep it quiet til after tha visit?"_ Liam had grinned as he had realized what she was suggesting. _"So we have at least a week ta track 'em down."_

"_Liam, ya cannae kill ham. Ya do thot an' Fiona will never fergive ya_." She'd placed a hand over her son's larger paw and stared hard into his pale blue eyes.

"_Ya know he has ta go. Fi will -"_

"_She will nae understand ya murderin' her man..."_ She remembered the way her girl had looked at the dark haired stranger, who was apparently _not_ from Kilkenny after all. _"We have ta bring tham both back har an' then wa'll decide whot ta do after."_

Mrs. Glenanne filled another glass. _Tonight was not a night to go to bed sober_. Her sons were out hunting down their only living sister. _If they failed to bring her back, if word got out about who she had run off with... _

Tilting her head back, the tiny Irish woman swallowed down a third of the strong spirit. _She would not lose another child and she would kill any man who tried to make her liar._

()()()()()

After their pleasant interlude, they had rearranged their clothing and taken turns visiting the en suite. Fiona had taken over sentry duty to allow her lover to get some shut eye.

She'd watched as he'd visited the bathroom before climbing back onto the bed and closed his eyes. Within minutes, she was sure he was asleep and a small glow of satisfaction warmed her soul. Not only had she been right about what Michael needed to relax enough to rest, but she also realized she wasn't the only one suffering from fatigue. _Maybe it wasn't all because of the baby... They had both lost so much in going on the run…_

After sitting by the window for half an hour, the young woman was bored and getting hungry. She had _always_ hated surveillance. If she was going to stare at something for any length of time, it would be through a sniper scope. Besides, hadn't she already reminded him how safe the cottage was with the tripwires?

The cooler box was standing in the corner of the room along with the rest of their meager supplies. Making herself a cheese and ham sandwich and picking up one of the bottles of water, Fiona went downstairs to eat her meal and inspect their bolt hole while double checking their security arrangements.

The cottage had been well cared for, that much was obvious. The damage had mostly been caused in the aftermath of whatever had happened to cause the roof over the bathroom to collapse. She wondered about who had lived here and why it was left empty.

As Fiona walked around the few small rooms, the auburn haired woman began to make plans to tidy the downstairs. It would give them more space and something to do during the long boring hours while they waited out their pursuers. The former guerilla was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she failed to hear the sounds of her lover waking up.

"Michael!" Ms. Glenanne jumped when he suddenly appeared in the doorway to what had been a laundry room. "Yer supposed ta be sleepin'."

"And you were supposed to be on guard duty." He smiled to take the sting out of his words.

"I've been thinking," the ex-operative announced as he led her back into the living room and onto the old couch. "We're going to need to start looking at the bigger picture. We could be here a few days. If we can stay out of sight, the CIA and MI6 will eventually have to pull resources off the hunt. There's a good chance if we can alter our appearance and have a big enough crowd to blend into that we could even sneak by one of your brothers."

Fiona opened her mouth to protest, but snapped it shut again as Michael raised a hand to stop her from interrupting. "_But_, if we're going to do this, we're going to have to take a risk and go into town on a supply run."

_Thot wa' better_…Even after one day she was feeling trapped in the cottage. A trip into Waterford would add a bit of adventure to the day.

"I could cut me hair." She combed her fingers through her long mane. "Dye it, maybe go lighter? Ya know all me brudders know about me black wig, but a light brown or blonde?"

"No. No, you can't... the chemicals in the dye, we don't know what effect they'd have on -"

His eyes dropped to her still flat belly.

"D'ya think?" She had no idea if hair dye was dangerous to an unborn baby or not. "Well, whot am I ta do then?"

"Hide it with a hat or wear it differently." He then ran a hand over his own hair. "_I_ could dye mine. At the very least, I'll cut all this off and go back to how it used to be when I was in – "

He'd checked himself. She'd caught it and, from the way she was looking at him, he knew he'd slipped up.

"When ya war in whot?"

"Where I was before coming to Ireland," he mumbled, caught between a lifetime of spy training and field experience, none of which had prepared him for his current situation.

"Is thot so, Michael Westen?"

The dark haired former spy let out a long sigh and then stood up, stepping away from his lover before turning to fully face her.

"I've noticed that you've taken to calling me by my full name since we've been on the run, especially when you want to make a point about something."

"Aye, Am reminding meself thot yer nae McBride and thot I –"

Fiona had wanted to tell him… try to explain to him how it had made her feel when he drew away from her and shut her out. But she didn't have the words and the former spy immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion.

"Do you regret leaving-" Michael began.

"Why d'ya bloody well ask me thot every time we have a tiff?" the fiery redhead demanded, swiftly coming to her feet as well. "Can we nae disagree wit'out ya gettin' yar knickers in a twist? McBride used ta love ta fight!"

"McBride loved a lot of things..." his voice trailed off as he stared at the floor.

"Whot's that? Ar' ya sayin' ya don' love me, Michael Westen? Thot it wa' only McBride?" Her temper was starting to rise again. She had noticed the lilt in his voice as they had made love. It had comforted her at the time, but now the thought of what it might have signified was making her very angry.

"No," he whispered, struggling to give voice to what was on his heart. "I'm afraid that you only loved Michael McBride and that one day you're going to wake up and be sorry that you've run off with _me_. I don't want you to hate me, Fi... I'm not sure I could deal with that."

The softness of his voice and the rare expression of his heart felt emotions stilled her tongue for the moment. She took him in her arms and squeezed tight while Michael merely accepted the embrace for a second before wrapping his arms about her waist.

"I hated ya when I found out ya'd lied ta me, when I found out ya warn't who ya said ya war," she spoke into his shirt and felt him flinch at her vehement words. Then the redhead lifted her gaze to his troubled blue eyes and laid a tender hand to his wiry cheek.

"But then I found out _who ya really ar' _Michael Westen, who ya ar' inside har…"

Fiona pressed a kiss to the right side of his chest, next to his heart, over the scar she'd given him when she'd flung to beer bottle at him and it had broken there on his body the day she found out that he wasn't who he'd said he was.

"And thot's why I forgave ya and let ya back inta me heart...and inta me bed, which is how we got ta whar we ar' har today." She smiled softly and there was a sparkle in her eye. "_Yer_ tha man I fell in love wit', Michael..." She stopped herself from adding his surname. "Wa're _both_ gonna change our names, change our looks and it's gonna work out so long as we donnae forget who we ar' inside, no matter whot we call ourselves fram har on out."

And she could see the unshed tears glistening brightly in those blue eyes which were filled with adoration before she leaned up to capture his mouth. He met her lips and they melted into one another, soft and slow, as her hands drifted up to card through his long black hair.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:**_Thank for all the reviews for this and all of our other stories. We really do appreciate all your feedback and comments. Now for an apology for being late posting this chapter. RL does get in the way sometimes and we've both realized Mondays are super busy for us. So we're going to change the day we post future chapters to Sundays which will hopefully stop this problem happening again. To make up for our tardiness, we've made this an extra long chapter. We hope you all enjoy._

_Just a quick reminder about our other story, Life With Larry. The conclusion of Michael and Larry's assignment in Bosnia & Serbia will be posted on Thursday as usual after #BurnerClub and it will be another very dark and intense chapter as the duo, with the assistance of Sam Axe, risk all to capture and steal away with the Militia's leader, General Drava._

_Now back to our heroes hiding out in their safehouse deep in the Irish countryside._

**()()()()()()()()**

**BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL**

**Chapter Six**

"Well, whot d'ya think, will it do?" Fiona stood beside her lover as he stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Michael leaned over into the empty, unused bathtub and ran his hands over his short spiky hair, sending tiny pieces of cut hairs flying onto his neck, shoulders and the enamel surface below. Straightening up, he wet his hands and ran them through the haircut his lover had just given him, coming away with more little bits of black fuzz, which he rinsed off under the running water.

Using a pair of scissors she'd found in a drawer in the kitchen, the redhead had set about chopping away his collar length curls into a more militaristic crop. As he looked at himself this way and that in the reflective glass, he decided it was a far better job than she'd done the last time. But _that night_ she'd been forced to hack several chunks out in order to stitch up the gash in his head he'd gotten escaping from a British Army patrol by dropping into the sewers underneath Belfast City.

"Not quite a buzz cut, but it'll do," he informed his lover while rubbing his palms over the stubble covering his cheeks. "And if I don't shave again, I should have a beard soon, which will help too."

He smiled at her, remembering what they had done in her eldest brother's house that night, although he was not about to mention it to her. He wanted all their concentration on the task before them.

"So, are ya gonna cut mine now?" The Irishwoman held out the scissors.

"Fi." He turned to face her, his hands resting on her shoulders as he stared deeply into her eyes. "I-"

"Yer changin' yar appearance, but ya won't let me cut me hair? It'll grow back, ya daft man."

"I know it will, but -" He knew he was being unfair and impractical. He just hated to see her have to do that. It would take a _long time_ to grow back and her flowing auburn hair was so beautiful…

Fiona held his gaze, grabbed a handful of her red-brown locks and swiftly cut through the strands. "Thar... tis done. Now, do tha rest an' be quick about it."

"You didn't have to do that."

Reluctantly taking the shears from her hand, Michael spun her around and settled her into the chair he had recently vacated. Grabbing the comb she had used on him, the dark haired man, who now had considerably less, began to untangle the long flowing tresses using his fingers and the comb.

"You coulda hidden it under a hat," he complained miserably.

"It'll be easier this way," she declared, keeping up the tough front. "Ya think I can wash this lot in cold water? It makes sense. Nar get ta it."

He forced himself to focus on the task before him, trying hard not to flinch every time he cut away more of the mane that he used to love to run his hands through, thread his fingers into as she would… _No, Fi was right. They had to do this and he had to keep his mind on the task._

Closing her own eyes, the redhead tried to keep control of her emotions as her lover reluctantly snipped away her old life. That was what it felt like. Her hair had been the same length for as long as she could remember, but she was no longer that same woman. She bit down on her lip. She was no longer Fiona Glenanne, any more than he was Michael McBride, or even now Michael Westen.

"We should be thinkin' o' new names, new identities," she spoke up.

"We should," the ex-spy agreed. "But reconnaissance is more important and that's what we're going to be doing today, along with restocking our supplies that is, and I think we should get a second vehicle... We can stash it nearby in case this place gets compromised."

"How long d'ya see us stayin' har?"

"As long as it remains safe, until the heat dies down." Fiona felt him shrug his shoulders.

"Me brothers will never give up and ya know how tha Gardai leak like a sieve... If word o' yar real identity reaches tha South..." The former PIRA operative couldn't continue voicing her concerns. Saying the words made it all too real and she'd already lectured_ him_ enough about worrying.

"We won't be here _that long_." Michael stopped cutting and placed a kiss on top of her head. "If push comes to shove, I can fly us out of here. It would be a massive risk. Unless we were really lucky, air traffic control would be on us as soon as we headed out over the sea. But there are plenty of small airfields we could steal a light aircraft from and aim for Wales or the Cornish coast... Okay, I'm finished. Don't ask me to cut off anymore."

Her head felt a lot lighter and when she touched her hands to her head, she knew he'd done as she asked. Getting to her feet she looked into the mirror and saw she now possessed a boyish mop of short auburn hair. One thing was for certain; her brothers would have a hard time recognizing her.

She barely recognized herself.

"Is it okay?" Fiona could hear the concern in his tone. "I'm sorry. I've never -"

"Tis fine," his lover told him. _It's necessary, it'll grow back. Once wa're safe it'll grow back_, she silently assured herself. Turning around, the Irishwoman smiled brightly up at him. "I'll get used ta it... Besides, didn't I tell ya it'll be easier fer me ta look after?"

"Aye, ya did." He drew her closer, kissing her properly this time before pulling back. "We should get going. I want to reach Waterford before the first ferry of the day sails."

"So we sneak in while everybody has eyes on the port?" the ex-guerrilla guessed.

"Exactly…" They kiss again, each running their hands though the others' newly shorn heads and sighing almost simultaneously. The couple stepped apart and their smiles were sad, but still smiles.

"I'm sorry, Fi. I wish you hadn't had-" he began

"Donnae say it, Michael. Tis just hair. It's whot's on tha inside thot makes us who we are," she advised. Taking him by the hand, she walked her lover back into the bedroom. Pulling open the top drawer of the old dresser, Fiona produced a newsboy hat and a woolen cap, handing him the former and placing the latter over her own head.

"Thar, we're properly disguised. Shall we go now?"

They soon had their belongings stowed away and the car freed from its home amongst the overgrown hedges. As they settled in for the drive into town, Fiona behind the wheel as she knew the area better, Michael tried to keep his mind on their scouting trip. Staring at her profile with all of her lovely locks tucked into the dark wool, something she would have never managed before, the ex-spy had a sudden flash of a memory, of another asset, another time and place where someone's hair was overflowing the confines of a cap just like that.

Agent Westen swallowed down his guilt as he spared his first thought in months for the woman he had agreed to marry back in Russia. Samantha had worn a hat like that on their first job together, keeping her curly brown tresses out of way. He hadn't seen his fiancée for going on two years now and hadn't spoken to her in a year and a half. From the way it looked, he was never going to talk to her again. "_It wasn't like he hadn't warned Samantha this could happen_," Michael justified inside.

The covert operative had told the master thief quite plainly that he could be gone for months on assignments or he could never come back at all one day. _Such was the life of a spy._ She would have to wait and not try to contact him. Ms. Keyes had once been an asset of his as well. After just over a year of working together on and off, she had proposed to him and Mr. Westen had accepted.

_But that had been before the whirlwind that was Fiona Glenanne had blown into his life and turned his head, his heart and his life inside out and you don't marry someone when you…_

"Whot's wrong, Michael? Ar' ya still frettin' over me hair?" the woman in question queried, completely derailing his train of thought.

He plastered a winning smile on his face and rubbed a hand on her shoulder.

"No, no, just thinking about tactics..." and he launched into a discussion about what they would do in terms of coming back for supplies should their trip to the dock prove less than uneventful.

_He'd known he was going to have to break it off with Samantha at some point, even before he'd tried arguing for Fiona becoming a protected CIA asset. One small blessing, which he would gladly take in a situation full of relationship pitfalls as well as physical dangers, was at least now he wouldn't have to have that uncomfortable discussion with either woman about the other._

Only that other woman wasn't as far away as he thought.

**()()()()()()()()()**

Samantha Keyes was sat in an interrogation room, entertaining herself by unlocking and then relocking the handcuff around her left wrist which _secured_ her to the metal table which bolted to the floor while she racked her brains as to why she had been picked up in the first place.

_She had been making her way home in the early hours of the morning after completing a job, when her car had been run off the road and she'd found herself bundled into the back of a van, shackled and with a head bag blocking her vision._

_It was Russian fashion week at the CEH Manezh in Moscow, which meant there was a multitude of targets for an enterprising thief of her level of expertise. With her slender figure and the right outfit, it had been easy for her to slip behind the scenes and find out where the various fashionistas were storing all the lovely pieces of jewellery they used to accessorize their designs._

_The brunette had just relieved one of Europe's premier fashion houses of a million Euros worth of diamonds when she'd been snatched off the streets and then spent the first hour of her capture fearing that she'd fallen into the hands of the Militsiya. However, sometime during that hour, she'd realized she was in American hands and that thought had cheered her up no end._

_The plane ride had been uncomfortable and it had been a little disconcerting when the flight had ended far too soon for whoever had snatched her to be taking her back to the US. _

_Then the head bag had come off and the handcuffs had been removed._

"_Clean yourself up. If you make a scene, we'll -"_

"_I won't," she'd answered fast, cutting off the young man in the sharp suit and with a serious expression which screamed CIA. She'd also managed to catch a glimpse out of the window and spotted what looked to her educated eye to be the English countryside. Trips to London in the past had always proved to be very enjoyable and incredibly lucrative. __She could only pray that this one would not be an exception to that principle._

_Ms. Keyes had no idea what was going on, but this was a lot better than she had hoped for when the door of her car had been ripped open and a gun thrust into her face. If she was in CIA hands, it had to mean that all that was happening had something to do with Michael. __One way or the other, she would finally have some news about the man she had been desperately missing__._

_So she'd walked through British customs with the men at her side flashing their diplomatic credentials and, as she had no wish to spend time in a British jail while they tried to find out who she was or antagonize her fiancé's employers, Samantha had remained calm and smiled._

When the door opened, the slim woman snapped the handcuff shut about her wrist and smiled at the man who stepped into the room.

"Ms. Keyes, I am sorry to have kept you waiting. I hope you've not been too uncomfortable."

She studied him closely; she was used to reading men and she knew this one was going to be trouble. He was tall, muscular, his suit a little tight on his arms. But his hands looked smooth and the manicured nails told her that, though he kept in shape, he was a desk jockey.

_A CIA interrogator maybe__…? What had Michael gotten himself into this time…?_

Running the tip of her tongue over her lips, Samantha sat up a little straighter, composing herself for what lay ahead. She'd been in other uncomfortable conversations and situations before now.

"Not at all," Ms. Keyes returned his professional smile with one of her own.

"You can leave that cuff undone, if you want." His words told her he had been watching her through the camera high up on wall. "We're all friends here."

"_My_ friends don't kidnap people off the street and take them to another country, Mr. -?"

"Oh, we both know that's a lie, don't we, Samantha? You don't mind if I call you by your first name, do you? After all, we're both after the same thing here." The older man ignored her request for his name and slid down into the only other seat in the room, placing a thin manila file in front him.

"And what would that be?" The way he watched her made her skin crawl; however, the master thief did her best to hide her distaste behind a relaxed pose and an innocent expression.

"You want your fiancé back where he belongs."

_Now that took her by surprise. _

"Michael…" She breathed his name and leaned forward. "Is he in trouble?"

"No, we've had a little glitch in our communications. That's why you're here." He smiled smoothly.

"But something _has_ happened or you wouldn't have had me brought here like this." The brunette held up the handcuff and chain, giving the metal a shake.

"No. No… There's no reason to believe that anything _bad_ has happened and I want to apologize for the way you were brought in... Very cloak and dagger, I know, but you were in the middle of a criminal act... No, the reason why _you're_ here is we wondered if you had heard from Michael."

"No, the last time I spoke to him, he said he'd be unreachable until he got back."

"Oh, right, of course." He paused and got to his feet, moving around the table until he was right next to her. Perching on the edge of the table, he leaned in close to her face. "I'm going to go off the record for a second," he whispered in her ear. "I used to leave an emergency phone with my wife when I knew I was going to be out in the field for a stretch. It couldn't be more against the rules, but it's the one person you love and trust, right? You and Michael don't have anything like that, do you?"

"No." She shifted as much as the bolted down chair allowed and looked him in the eye.

"Really? Cuz it's essential I get in touch with him. You have no special arrangements?" She could tell he didn't believe her and knew that was going to be a problem if she wanted to get out of her present predicament.

"We _never_ talked about his work unless I was working the job with him and I _never_ asked. He was _very clear_ about that. The last time I spoke to him, he told me he was going to be gone for some time and I was to wait until I heard from him or someone from the CIA. That's what I was doing."

His blue eyes bored into her, as if he was trying to read her mind. Then he stood up abruptly and moved back around to his side of the table.

"Don't worry about it. Everything is gonna be okay... So, when _exactly_ did you last speak to him?"

"Not for eighteen months, maybe longer."

He flicked open the file he had brought in with him and then looked up at her again. "You move around a lot, Samantha. Yet from what I've read here, Michael was always able to find you. How did he know where to look?"

"I -" She was beginning to get a bad feeling about the line of questioning.

"I can see you care very much for Michael." Her silver haired interrogator suddenly changed his approach yet again. "I want you to know I do too. I trained Michael as a spy, taught him all he knows and, I gotta tell you, I think of him as a son or I wouldn't be here now trying to _save_ him."

"Save him…? What do you mean? Is he -"

"In _a lot_ of danger, yes. I'm sorry I lied at first. It's just I didn't know if you were strong enough to deal with the truth. It is imperative I find a way to contact him, let him know it's safe to come home."

Ms. Keyes was torn. She didn't trust the man before her and yet Michael had been gone so long, there had something gone wrong. "Tell me, what I can do?"

"Give me a way to contact him, a way he will trust and I'll tell you what I can."

"I called into Dan Siebels. He's my only other contact. I'm an official CIA asset, Michael is -"

"Michael _was_ your handler, but he isn't any more and, if we don't find him soon, he is going to be _very dead_, so quit stalling and tell me how you contact each other!" The man flushed red as he snarled at her. Samantha knew it was just another ploy to throw her off balance, but knowing it didn't change how unsettling it felt to be in this man's power.

"I have three apartments, one in Moscow, St. Petersburg and another in Volgograd. _I know_ the CIA keeps track of my movements. _They find me_, just like _you found me_. I don't know -"

He slapped his hand down on the table, bringing an end to her words. "I was hoping to spare you this, I'm-," The older man spun the file around and pushed it over until it was in front of her. "This is going to be hard for you. Michael has deserted his post and disappeared with that woman." He pointed to the photograph of a young woman with long reddish brown hair and a pale complexion. "Her name is Fiona Glenanne, an IRA sympathizer, gunrunner and suspected bank robber."

Samantha stared at the face and held her composure by the sheer force of her will. This could just be a ploy, a trick to make her give up information on her lover. _What had Michael had once called the spy trade? Ah, yes, hall of mirrors… __Master thieves used the same misdirection in their work__._

But then her interrogator moved the first image aside to reveal a second one and, as she gazed at this photograph, her heart broke. Michael Westen, the dark haired man who had captured her soul, was with that other woman, this Fiona Glenanne, holding hands over a table, his free hand tenderly cupping her cheek as he stared into her eyes. Even on film it was impossible not to see the love shining in his eyes. With a hand shaking in anger and hurt, she shut the cover, pushing the file aside.

_She had always known that he might have to sleep with other women as part of his job. Because, just as in her chosen profession, it was sometimes necessary to get very close to a person to make them trust you; it meant nothing. It was one of the things that had made their relationship so special, at least to her. Whatever they had to do for their work, they could trust each other. _

_But Michael had never looked at her the way he was looking at that young Irishwoman._

He was still talking to her, the man who had just shattered her heart, and Samantha knew she had to listen carefully. Because her finely tuned survival instincts had told her quite clearly that, if she wasn't careful, it wouldn't only be her heart that got hurt.

"She was his asset. Her family have a lot of links to the IRA. Your fiancé thought he was using her, but it seems now she was in fact using him. _We_ need to get him back before he does something stupid and the only way we can do that is to remind him what or rather who has left behind."

"You think she… that woman has… has tricked him? Tricked Michael?"

His fiancée didn't believe that for one minute; not the Michael Westen she knew.

"It doesn't matter. If he stays with her, they will both be killed. But first Michael will be tortured, disfigured, and cut to little pieces by that young lady's brothers. Now, neither one of us want that for him, do we? He's strayed, gotten lost on a deep cover assignment. If you care about him as much as I do, you will want to help me get him back."

_He had thrown everything away to be with that woman, sacrificed everything including their love?_ The brunette closed her eyes just for a second. _There had to be more to it than that_.

"I'll help you." She looked into her interrogators intense blue eyes. "You just have to give me some time to think. All this has been such a shock."

"Certainly, my dear..." He smiled at her the way a shark would smile upon a particularly juicy seal. Ms. Keyes had seen the look more than once during her career. "I'll leave you to think about Michael and the young Ms. Glenanne while you come up with some way of helping me find them."

**()()()()()()()()**

The road into Waterford wasn't just quiet, it was completely deserted. For over five miles, they hadn't seen another car. It had been market day the day before, which was when most of the locals had done their shopping, and it was still too early in the year for the summer tourists to be invading the town and the surrounding countryside.

"So, whot's tha plan? A quick trip ta buy some more bread an' cheese and then back to our cozy nest?" Fiona stared out of the window at the passing countryside as Michael made good time on the deserted country lanes, even without having to put his driving skills to the test.

"A little more than that, we can get whatever you want. We could buy a camping stove and some gas canisters. It'll mean we can boil water and even heat up a meal... I was also thinking about buying some cheap security lights. They run off batteries and, with the lights removed, I can wire up the motion sensors to warn us if somebody comes nosing around."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Me brother Seamus does sommit similar around his weapons dumps, only he wires up tha motion detectors ta shotgun shells."

He raised an eyebrow and risked a brief glance in her direction.

"Does your brother have any other security tips we could use?"

"Not thot I can think of wit'out havin' access ta a comprehensive armoury... Now it's yar turn." The redhead rested her hand on his thigh and gave it a squeeze.

"My turn?"

"Aye, I've told ya about one o' Seamus's lines o' defense. Now, ya tell me sommit about yar family."

"My family?" he echoed uncertainly.

"Ya already know about me family; ya've read all our Interpol files at the very least. I donnae know anythin' about yar _real _family."

"What do you want to know?" Michael sounded unsure about this new . Glenanne turned in her seat so she could watch his profile while he focused on driving.

"How many brothers and sisters have ya got?"

"One brother, that's it," he answered immediately, happy that she had asked something so simple. But that wasn't all the Irishwoman wanted.

"Jus' tha one? So, tell me about ham, whot's his name? When did ya las' see ham?"

"That's more than one question, I think -" He stopped talking as her fingers tightened their hold on his limb. Swallowing, he revised his statement. "Okay, I see you feel strongly about this, his name is Nate and he's six years younger than me."

"And?"

"Oh, well, let's see now, I think last time I saw him, he had taken out ten credit cards in my name because he thought I was critically injured and not expected to live. So, when I went over to have a little chat with him about that, he hit me in the back of the head with a telephone book and while I was still seeing stars, he stole my rental car so he could use it as collateral in a poker game."When she didn't comment, he glanced at her again. "There's a reason I became a spy, Fi... I didn't have a family like yours. The happiest times in my home were when my dad would disappear for a few weeks. Of course, he always came back again…" He tried shrugging off the painful memories.

"Ya wa' happier when yar da' wa' away?" She shook her head, wishing now she hadn't asked. She had lost her father when she was just a girl and that still hurt. "Whot about yar ma? Whot's she like?"

He wasn't ready to talk about his mother, not yet anyway. "It's complicated...Hmmm, let's just talk about her _later_... Oh look, the sea, we're nearly there. Where do you want to go first? How about we find a hardware store and then move on from there?"

They spent a couple of hours visiting various small shops, spending cash and trying to avoid conversations with the owners and staff, who invariably wanted to chat. By the end of the morning, the trunk of the BMW was filled with their supplies and they apparently hadn't been spotted yet.

"Whot about another car?" Fiona was eyeing up the vehicles parked along by the harbor wall.

"It's too exposed. We need somewhere quieter." The street was far from being busy, but it only needed one person to question what they were doing. "We might have to leave that until after dark."

"Well if wa're not looking fer a vehicle, whot are we doin' takin' a stroll in tha open like this?"

He came to a stop and turned her slightly so she could see where they were. "I thought you'd appreciate a hot meal?"

_Sally O'Brady's_ was a small cafe with a large plate glass window and, when she looked inside, it was just what she suspected: all green and white chintz and good solid old fashioned wooden tables and chairs. It also had a good view of the road and seemed relatively empty.

"D'ya think this is wise, Michael?" Fiona looked up at her lover as he studied the menu in the cafe window. _He had surprised her, given his new intolerance for danger since they'd gone on the run__._

"I've seen only two traffic cameras in this whole town and we avoided them both," he informed her as he read the mouth-watering list of local delicacies. "I think for a hot meal we can risk it."

"I'm so glad ya said thot." She sighed and, without further ado, pushed open the half glass door and stepped into the warmth of the cozy cafe. "I could murder fer a decent cuppa tea."

Taking a table that gave them the best view of the exits and of the street outside, the couple unbuttoned their coats and sat back as comfortably as they could. It was still a little early for the lunchtime crowds, so only two other tables were taken up in the small establishment, one by a pair of elderly women, enjoying a chat while sipping tea and eating pastries, while the other was being occupied by a family, a man and woman most likely in their thirties with three children in tow, English tourists by their accents.

Knowing that most intelligence agencies didn't employ the elderly or approve of agents taking their families on assignments to capture rogue spies, Michael felt he could let his guard down by a fraction, or at least enough to enjoy a hearty repast.

"Good mornin' ta ya…" The waitress was a teenage girl who looked like she would have preferred to have been anywhere other than serving customers. "Can I take yar order, please?"

Bored and disinterested was just what Michael looked for in serving staff. Unless she was very, very good, this girl was no CIA or MI6 operative about to poison him or stick a knife into him under the pretense of placing a napkin on his lap.

"A pot 'o tea fer two, milk an' sugar." Fiona answered for them both. "Are ya still servin' breakfasts?"

"Aye, servin' em all day."

During his time playing the Irish patriot McBride, Michael had got used to tucking into greasy eggs, bacon, sausage, beans and fried bread with a healthy gusto. But the cholesterol filled meal dripping in fat wouldn't have been his first choice. He waited for the girl to leave and then leaned forward over the table. But before he could speak, she answered his unasked question.

"Don'tcha pull a face. Ya know we both need tha energy... An' god only knows when wa're gonna get another chance ta have a full breakfast."

"We've got a camping stove," he countered in a low voice.

"Aye, but it won't be tha same an' ya know it. Ya came har ta eat, so let's eat," she declared with a grin, knowing she had won that particular argument.

They ate in near silence, not wanting to risk being overheard as, with the lunch hour looming closer, more people began to enter the cafe. Michael kept a close watch on the door through to the kitchen and where the various patrons were sitting as well the movement of the few members of staff. The former operative trusted that Fiona was concentrating on the front door and the street beyond.

"Michael," she whispered, a slender hand landing on his arm and he instantly looked up, searching for what had caused her concern.

Across the other side of the road, near to a row of empty coaches waiting for returning tour parties investigating the town, two young women who no more than teenagers were standing out near the harbor, looking out at the boats bobbing on the waves, unaware of the two men approaching them from behind. Even from a distance, it was impossible not to see these men were up to no good. Their furtive glances gave away that they were looking out making sure it was all clear.

"It's none of our business, Fi." He felt sorry for the girls about to be mugged, but the ex-spy had something far more important on his mind.

One of the men grabbed hold of the taller girl's handbag, tearing it off her shoulder. The second man went to do the same to the smaller girl, but she had her bag strap crossways over her body and, when he tugged, she went with him, nearly falling as he jerked and pulled at the strap.

Both Michael and Fiona watched the teenager was dragged along as she fought to hold onto her property. That is until the strap snapped and she fell to the ground.

"Fi, leave it. It's over. They're fine." Michael laid his hand over his lover's wrist.

The thieves were off and running, while the taller girl joined her smaller friend, helping her to her feet. They stared after the departing muggers, talking rapidly to each other. The smaller girl with strands of blonde hair sticking out from under her hat pulled a mobile phone from her coat pocket.

"Fi!" he hissed as the fiery redhead had slipped her hand from under his and was out of her chair in a flash, making a dash for the cafe door. "Dammit, Fi," Michael groaned and got to his feet, pulling money from his pocket to pay for the meal as he went to give chase.

He had no fear that she would catch up to the thieves. His concern was for their cover if the police got involved. All it would take was one mention in a Garda report of a couple with a resemblance to themselves to bring the intelligence agencies to the area. _Card would tear the place apart. He'd find a pretense to search every building__... That is, if her brother Colin didn't hack their system and send Liam after them first…__ Dammit it all to hell!_

()()()()()()()()()

Fiona ran as hard as she could. It had been years since she had been to Waterford. But she had a vague memory of all the narrow streets that weaved away from the seafront and the even narrower alley ways which linked them together.

Sprinting after the thieves, she caught sight of them just as they darted off the main street and into one of the many alleys and, at that moment, she saw her chance to overtake them. Flying as fast as her feet would carry her, she spotted exactly what she needed to bring the thieves to a stop.

A large metal dumpster had been left at the entrance to a narrow side road and, if she had memorized the streets correctly that she and Michael had been walking around earlier, this was where her targets would be coming out. Kicking the brakes off the dumpster, Fiona could hear the thud of boots on concrete coming from just around the corner. _If she timed things just right…_ Taking a deep breath, the former PIRA operative pushed it with all her might out into the alley where she'd heard the running footfalls.

Both men crashed into the obstacle and, before they could recover, Ms. Glenanne dodged around the obstacle and hit one with a punch to the jaw and the other, even as he reached for her, was assaulted from behind by an angry man with a very short haircut and icy blue eyes. With the second assailant choked out and lying unconscious on the ground, Michael snatched up the two purses before Fiona could touch them.

"Whot tha hell are ya playin' at? Ya coulda got us -" He paused, his own orbs going wide when he realized they had two wide-eyed witnesses, the two teenage victims of the robbery were standing there, staring at the scene of carnage and the people who had apparently caused it.

Fiona turned and beamed brightly at them. "We saw yar trouble... An' I t'ought tis no way ta treat visitors ta our fair shores." The Irishwoman thickened her accent and pulled the bags from her lover's grasp and handed them back to the girls. "Accept our apologies fer our heathen brudders." The one she had hit groaned and opened his eyes, so Fiona kicked him back into unconsciousness.

"Thank you, thank you both." the taller of the girls gasped, taking both of their purses back.

Michael instantly recognized her accent and, although it was Canadian rather than American, it still caused his levels of paranoia to jump several degrees. The young women were surely _too young_ to be operatives in any agency. Nonetheless, they had seen their faces now and, when he glanced around, the ex-spy could see several other people were coming closer to gawk at the scene.

"I – I called the police." The second girl held up her phone, gasping slightly from the chase. "Sorry, it took me a minute to get the road names. But they said they are sending somebody." Her bright smile faded as she read the expression in the faces of the couple who had rescued their property. "I – they would have gotten all our belongings, our passports and money," she added quietly.

"We should go." Michael tugged on Fiona's hand; however, the Irishwoman held her ground.

"Ar' ya both a'right? They dinnae hurt either o' ya?"

"No, Ma'am. We're fine, just a little shaken up."

"Thot's good now. I need tha two o' ya ta do us a little favor... Can ya keep quiet about me and me man har? Ya see, we're elopin' an' if me family finds out wa're har, thar'll be hell ta pay. So I need ya ta tell the Garda thot these two," and she kicked the nearest one again. "Thot they ran straight inta dumpster cuz they war watching tha pair o' ya chasin' them. Can ya do thot fer us?"

"I don't know," the petite blonde teen answered before looking to her darker haired friend.

"Ya would be doin' us both a massive favor an' it wouldnae hurt a soul." Michael flashed his most charming smile.

"What do you think, Taryn? If they hadn't stopped them, we'd have been in real trouble."

Taryn, the slightly taller of the duo, bit down on her bottom lip as she glanced from the men lying conscious on the ground to the couple pleading with their eyes to keep their anonymity.

"It does nae harm and t'would be such a help ta us," Fiona added.

Taryn finally came to a decision. "I think we should help them, Kara. Just like –?"

She looked in askance to the Irishwoman.

"Barbara…" Fiona came up with the first name which sprung to her mind. It had been on the waitress' name tag back at the cafe.

"Just like Barbara says, it wouldn't hurt anybody."

"Thank you." Michael breathed a sigh of relief.

"Can you wait with us until the police arrive?" Kara requested. "We can tell them you just stopped by to stay with us to make sure those two don't run away."

"No." Mr. Westen said quickly. "No, we daren't risk it, young miss. But how about we use thot broken strap on yar bag ta tie up one o' tham an' tha belt off yar coat, Taryn, ta restrain tha other?"

They waited until the young women, who insisted on doing the tying up themselves, had secured their prisoners and then, just as the sound of police sirens was getting closer, the Irish couple disappeared into the maze of alleys and back to their car.

()()()()()()()()()

Michael was back in the driver's seat of the BMW, which was now loaded down with enough supplies to last them a week. Flexing his fingers around the steering wheel, the dark haired former spy worked on containing his fury at what had just happened. _How could she do that, risking everything for a couple of strangers in mugging for gods sakes? It's not like they were being killed!_

"I had ta do it, Michael." Fiona declared, as if reading his mind, instead of just his stony expression of barely suppressed anger. "Ya saw it fer yarself! Tham bastids coulda really hurt tham."

"But they didn't. The girls were just shaken up. They'd have been fine. But now they've seen our faces." He turned his head at glare at her. "If they talk, if they say _anything_ to the police..."

"They're not gonna an' they wouldnae have seen us at all if ya had nae come charging in like some bloody white knight. I had it under control, Michael."

"Under control…? You call that under control? You took on two men, both of them bigger than you with no back up... You can't do that, Fi, not anymore."

"Oh, I cannae, is it? Since when do I ever take on someone who's nae bigger than me size and who ar' ya ta tell me whot I can or cannae do, Michael Westen? _Ya_ might be enough o' a cold hearted bastid who can watch two teenagers get assaulted, but I cannae. I've spent me whole life fighting injustice an' am nae gonna sit around now when I can put a stop ta it."

"And I'm telling you you can't keep putting yourself at risk. You think I'm cold hearted bastard and I don't care? Well, _y__ou're_ all I care about, _your_ freedom, keeping _you_ and _our baby_ safe. _That's it!_ _You're_ my mission, Fiona, my _only_ mission, an' I don't give _a rat's ass_ about anyone else." He closed his mouth and reined in his temper, waiting for her reply and half expecting to get hit.

But instead of letting her own temper erupt, Fiona turned away to face the window. Michael thought he heard her sniff, but the dark haired man knew better than to ask if she was okay.

They travelled the rest of the way back to their hideout in silence, neither one wanting to be the one who broke the peace, both of them lost in their own thoughts.

Even though they weren't communicating, they still managed to work as a team when they arrived back at the cottage, getting the car onto the back of the property and hiding the path they had taken before carrying all their supplies back into the once abandoned dwelling.

When the doors were shut, the trip wires back in place and the bags emptied, Michael turned his attention to repairing the damage caused by their latest tiff. He had always loved the way she called him out when he was being insensitive. _Relationships, people, they were hard for him to fathom sometimes when they weren't merely assets and liabilities to be used or countered._ He had always loved her spirit and how passionate she was about life, even when it drove him nuts…_but now…_

"Fi, we need to talk, luv." He used the same endearment he had used throughout their time together.

"Whot d'ya want ta talk about, Michael?" she groused, turning away from him.

"Please, sit with me." Letting out a frustrated breath, he took hold of her hand and he led her over to the couch. _Shouting at her wasn't going to make her listen to him, that much he knew._

"Please, just sit... If you don't like what I have to say, then you can hit me some more."

With a heart-felt sigh, the petite redhead dropped down onto the soft padded cushions. "Fine, we'll talk... But if I donnae like whot ya have ta say, I _will_ kick yar arse."

"It's a deal." He smiled at her and then sat down next to her. "Fi, we have problem."

She rolled her eyes at him for stating the obvious.

"Just let me speak... It's like football and football. What you think of as football and what I think is football is two entirely different things. What you call football, I call soccer. There are all kinds of people chasing the ball, kicking ball, moving it up and down the field. What I call football is something different. In the football I am accustomed to, there is one person responsible for carrying the ball, the quarterback, that's you and the ball in this scenario is our baby."

He placed his hand over her stomach and then gathered her two hands together in his free hand before pressed them over the back of his large paw covering her still flat belly.

"Michael, I -"

"Please, just listen... You carry the ball and you go down field towards the goal, our goal, which in this case is to get out of Ireland and somewhere safe, and my job to tackle everyone that is coming after you. The quarterback does not tackle people. The quarterback carries the ball and sometimes he passes it to someone to carry down field. But in this case, you cannot pass the ball. You have to run with it. You cannot keep trying to do my job on the field and I need you to do yours. Okay?"

"I donnae think ya can call our baby a ball. Besides, me mammy managed -"

"Your Mom did what she had to when your dad wasn't there to help and she had the rest of your family to help her... _I'm the one here_ with you and I want you to understand that this isn't going to work for me while you keep insisting on putting our baby in play."

"Michael, -"

"Shhhh, let me finish." He took her face between his hands and placed a soft kiss to her forehead. "You are the bravest person I know. But I need you to remember that there is someone more important than either you or me that needs defending right now and that's our baby. You _have to_ think about that _first_, Fi. I know it feels wrong sometimes, but you _need to_ see that bigger picture."

He waited, silently praying that she understood what he was trying to say. Slowly, the hurt faded from her blue-green eyes and she leant forward until their foreheads touched.

"Yar really bad at this, ain't ya?"

"Yeah," he agreed with a weak laugh.

"I'm nae sure I like it, but I donnae think I'll kick yar arse fer it."

"Thank you," he whispered, drawing her in for a long slow kiss. As they broke apart, Fiona let herself be tucked under his arm and she laid her head on her lover's shoulder.

He might not have convinced her of anything, but at least she knew where he stood and he had managed to clear the air between them… he hoped… and that was good enough for tonight.

()()()()()()()()()()

Mason Gilroy sat at a small table, gazing dispassionately at the brunette on the monitor who had apparently decided to remove her handcuffs and leave them off this time. On the flat surface before him were the redacted details of the last ten years of Michael Westen's life since joining the Agency.

The British agent turned freelance assassin sighed before turning his attention back to the paperwork laid out in front of him. Of course the Americans were not going to turn over the classified details of their operations, regardless of what the Home Office threatened them with.

_Reading documents that were more little black rectangles than words was rather a bit like watching a movie on an airplane. All the juicy bits were gone, but one could still get the basic idea. _

He knew _of_ Westen, of course. In their business, there weren't a lot of chaps with their reputations as well as the skills to back them up. Seemed he'd had a bit of a falling out with his old partner before the man had gotten himself blown up in some Russian oil refinery. Mr. Gilroy also preferred work for hire to laboring for a government, but it did seem rather a bit of an extreme way to retire from active duty.

The silver haired man he was supposed to be helping was stalking around the sparse office they were both currently occupying while shouting into a phone. The Englishman let the noise wash over him. It was of no concern to him. Long slender fingers pulled out a collection of photographs of a dark haired man from his late twenties through his early thirties, if he had to guess. Next to that were surveillance photographs of the young woman on the screen in front of him and a bounty of shots of another young woman with long auburn hair and impeccable fashion sense for an arms dealer.

"Seems your boy here is quite the _ladies'_ man... Pity that," Gilroy announced when Tom Card had ended his conversation. "Oh, well, no matter. I can use that, old chap."

"How so?" the CIA officer queried. He knew the man was not happy to have him onboard. The freelance wet work specialist smiled broadly at the American.

"I find that when you hold someone, you learn what they tell you. But if you let them go, you can learn what they do, where they go and who they contact. As delightful as it was watching you try to intimidate Ms. Keyes, I think she would be more useful if you set her free, as it were."

"You want me to just let her go, that's your plan?" And Card's disbelief was plain.

"In a manner of speaking, yes…. I'll be following her, of course. Should she lead me to the elusive Mr. Westen, I presume his assets are _expendable_?"

"I just want Michael back here in one piece. The collateral damage is _your_ business."

Mason Gilroy's smile was wide and self-satisfied. "Yes, it always is," he agreed. The neatly dressed Brit stood up and, after gathering a few photographs, headed towards the door. "I'll leave you to ponder that thought while I prepare for our little endeavor. I trust you won't keep me waiting too long to begin."

The flexing of the jawline and the clenched teeth of his employer at the moment as the man tried to control himself was endlessly entertaining as the door closed behind him.

"Well, ta ta for now," he called as the wooden barrier closed between them and Gilroy chuckled softly.


	7. Chapter 7

******A/N:**___Thank you for all the lovely reviews for this story. We appreciate all your comments and feedback, plus a shout out to the all the Burners out there on Twitter. Thanks for the all the interest, the retweets and favorites for this and ____Life with Larry____. We are sorry for the delay in posting, though at least we got it out early on Monday this time :-)____and we appreciate that you appreciate the time that goes into making regular updates and long chapters, so thanks for the encouragement__._

******()()()()()()()()()()**

******BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL**

******Chapter Seven**

With the freelance assassin gone from his temporary office, Tom Card placed a phone call requesting his prisoner be removed from the interrogation room and returned to one of the small holding cells deep inside the CIA's London headquarters hidden beneath the US Embassy. Then he had turned his attention to his other problem at the moment. Mason Gilroy was more than a pain. The supercilious hired gun was fast becoming the bane of his existence. The soft upper class British accent which grated on his nerves along with the ever present amused smirk on the younger man's face were just two of the many things which was driving the training officer insane.

Lifting up the handset, he dialed out another call, this one to his colleague at Langley, hoping that Bill Raines had managed to use his influence to get him sole control of the investigation and to find out what the hell was going on in DC that the State Department not only allowed but approved of the UK government bringing in one of their premier wet work specialists onto the case.

"How am I supposed to work with my hands tied, Bill? Did you know about Gilroy?" Card demanded once the pleasantries were over and done with.

"Calm down, Tom," Deputy Director Raines answered his friend's agitation with a composure that irritated the man even more. "We knew about Gilroy. He's an insurance policy, that's all. ___If _Michael won't come in quietly, then we can sell it that a rogue CIA operative and an ex-MI6 agent turned paid killer got into a fight. No harm, no foul."

"That man is impossible, he's-"

"He's an unstoppable force. I've seen his dossier, Tom. Mason Gilroy is the ideal man to bring Westen in ___or _kill him and he is renowned for being discrete."

"And Michael...? Has a decision been made on his future?" The training officer ran a hand over his thinning hair, his forehead creased with worry. _If this was just going to be the young man's nine millimeter retirement party, he didn't want anything to do with it._

"Not yet. There's been some understanding. His last assignment with Sizemore, the injuries he sustained have gained him some sympathy. But they have frozen his assets and put his family under surveillance... The longer he stays out..." his long time friend let the sentence hang.

"And that's why Gilroy moved to the top of my speed dial," Card grumbled. The sandy haired man glanced at the monitor, seeing his unwilling guest arrive back in her current accommodations.

"Look, I'm working on finding them as fast as I can, Bill. I've taken all the intel available on Michael Westen and Fiona Glenanne to a couple of tech geeks and they've fed all the specs into the CIA, Interpol, & GCHQ databases. I've also tasked a low level gremlin at the NSA to use one of their super computers to scour every video on the global system in case they've already slipped out of the country and I'm about to send Michael's little fiancé off with Gilroy tailing her to see if she's hiding anything from me... So, you see I'm doing all I can at my end."

"And ___I'm_doing all I can to hold off the burn notice. The sooner you get him back under your wing, the easier it's gonna be to run damage control. We do this right and we can sell it that he's had some sort of breakdown, the head injury, losing a long term partner. I mean, you do know about the father-son crap that the DIA has written up about him and Sizemore? We can bring this home, but ___you've_got to bring him in ___and fast_, Tom."

And Tom Card wished, and not for the first time, that he hadn't ignored the advice to check in on his star pupil's progress in Ireland when the rumors had first graced his ears.

"I'm dancing as fast as I can, Bill." The American intelligence officer ended the conversation and turned to his next unpleasant task, updating Michael's last UK handler on his progress and seeing if he could pry any of MI6's secrets out of Richard Chambers' brain before the man's condescending tone caused him to give into the desire to put a bullet between the man's self-righteous eyes.

()()()()()()

"Michael, it's late, come to bed."

Fiona sat up, the bed covers falling down to her waist revealing that she was sleeping in one of the few t-shirts Michael had brought with him.

"Michael!" she called out louder when her lover didn't answer her straight away.

"Go to sleep, Fi. I'm just gonna sit up for a while longer." His voice drifted into the bedroom from the landing.

___He was back on guard duty again._She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. "Come to bed," the petite redhead ordered. "You spent two hours setting up those motion sensors. If anybody goes near the car or comes close to the doors, we'll know about it. I helped you test them, remember?"

Fiona had hoped with the new security measures in place, he would begin to relax again. The ex-guerrilla knew that their close call in town had set his finely tuned paranoia off again, but the extra precautions they'd taken should have calmed his nerves. They'd even set small charges on the perimeter of the house; nothing too deadly, just enough to discourage anyone who got too close.

"Soon," came the softly spoken response.

The Irishwoman sighed with irritation and kicked the covers off her bare legs, shivering at the cold damp air which filled the room. "Come ta bed. Come ta bed an' help keep me warm." She attempted to entice the rock of a man who didn't even spare her a glance as she padded over to his side.

It was only when her slender hand landed gently on his arm that he briefly glanced at her. Smiling softly, he pressed a light kiss to her lips before turning back to the window. "Just a few more minutes, Fi, go back to bed before you catch a chill. I'll be there soon."

"If ya won't rest, well then, I will nae either," Fiona declared firmly. Stepping closer, she pulled his arm around her shoulders. "While we watch a country lane which has only maybe two dozen cars travel along it each day, ya can tell me, have ya given any thought ta where wa're ta go?.. Whar's gonna be safe fer us ta bring our babby inta tha world?"

"I don't know," Michael admitted. "At the moment, I'm just thinking about one problem at a time. We've got to give the agencies coming after us time to run out of steam. If we can stay hidden and ___out of sight__," _he added a slight emphasis to the last phrase. "If they can find no trace of us, eventually other jobs will come up. They'll keep a team on us for a while. But one team can't cover every exit and that's when we'll make our move. We'll most likely end up in France for a bit."

"I have several passports on me. Me brudders might be able ta trace me, but -" She stopped at the look he gave her and huffed. "Ya tol' yar MI6 masters about me selection o' travel documents, didn't ya?"

"Sorry, Fi… I was -" He grunted as she shut him up with a sharp kick. Annoying and painful as it was, Michael didn't comment as he _had_ betrayed her trust at the time and her temper was even more hair trigger than before, thanks to the rush of pregnancy hormones and their stressful situation.

His lover turned in his arms so she could look into his eyes.

"I know... ya wa' jus' doin' yar bloody job... Am too tired ta fight wit' ya about it now..." Fiona tried to look contrite about the blow, attempting to keep her increasingly mercurial temper under control.

"So, how d'ya intend on us gettin' out o' tha country an' inta another?" she demanded when he wouldn't answer her. ___If they weren't going to rest, then they might as well discuss tactics__. _"We try ta get someone ta take us across, Seamus will know befer we've left tha dock. So thot leaves stealing our own boat an' prayin' fer good luck in navigating tha busiest shipping lanes in Europe or sneaking aboard a ferry."

"You know as well as I do there's other ways to get on a ship," the dark haired man reminded her.

"Ya plan ta have us stowaway? Aye, it could work, steal a coupla IDs belongin' ta baggage handlers or waiting staff," she agreed, nodded thoughtfully. Resting her cheek against her lover's chest, she listened to his steady heartbeat, snuggling even closer, her hands burrowing under his jumper to keep warm, seeking comfort and reassurance. "I've spent a lotta time in France, Paris, tha French Alps an' o' course tha Riviera... Have ya ever been thar?"

"No."

Fiona let her fingers wander over her lover's back and sides, tracing the lines of muscles under soft supple skin. "Nae France, how about Spain them? Have ya visited Madrid or Barcelona? I've been ta both, Gibraltar too."

"Fi…" His lover could feel him stiffen and attempt to draw away at her line of questioning and she hated the fact that he couldn't trust her with just a place name. ___How was this going to work if he couldn't even share some basic facts of his past with her?_

"We need ta talk about this, ya know it. I'm nae asking fer tha details o' yar classified operations fer tha love o' tha Lord. We cannae stay anywhar we've been befer. It has ta be a completely new life."

"I've been to Spain, okay...?" Michael stroked a work roughened palm over her cheek and lifted her chin so he could kiss her lips. ___Fi was right; they had to work this out sooner rather than later_. But at the moment, he was solely focused on leaving the country safely. "Now, I think it is time for bed."

"Ya comin' wit' me?" Ms. Glenanne pleaded, yet hating the neediness that crept into her voice.

"Aye, luv, am comin' wit ya…" He had let McBride answer, automatically responding to her tone; however, when he saw the look in her eyes and remembered their earlier conversation, he kissed Fiona again. Holding her in a tight embrace, he made sure she knew how much she meant to him.

"I'll keep you warm, Fi," he promised in his own voice and, with a bend of his knees, he lifted the lithe woman into his arms and carried her back to the bedroom.

()()()()()()

Samantha lifted her feet up off the floor and lay back on the narrow uncomfortably hard bed in her tiny six by six foot cell. She had been moved back to her cell from the interrogation room again after several hours of answering questions and now she was utterly exhausted. Closing her weary brown orbs, she tried to sleep. But her mind kept going back over what she'd been told.

The older man interrogating her had told her that Michael had ruined his career by running off with another woman, a terrorist he was supposed to be using to gain information on all the various factions of the IRA. ___The man she had been waiting for the last two years had sacrificed everything to be with a petite, auburn haired bomb maker__._ The master thief clenched her jaw and held back the tears by sheer willpower. Without the danger of dealing with the sandy haired man to distract her, images would dance on her eyelids and threaten to break her tentative hold on her emotions.

Samantha saw the dark haired man she loved over and over: _talking her through an op, that look of concentration he got when they were working; that scowl he wore when things weren't going as they should; the forced pleasantness or blank look on his features when a question bordered on out of bounds; that pleased expression he always had when things went well; that devilish grin when they had down time and were busy lying to one another about what they had been doing while they were apart, stealing one another's keys and wallet for practice and fun and that satiated smile after they made love, them lying together in bed, a moment of peace before he was off to the bathroom to shower off and dress again…. _But even as these thoughts were swirling about in her head, her mind's eye kept torturing her with the one of Michael staring into the eyes of Fiona Glenanne, reminding her that her lover had ___never_looked at her in the same way.

With a heartfelt sigh, Samantha opened her eyes and sat up. It was no good. She couldn't sleep locked in a tiny room when all she wanted was answers and she wasn't going to get those answers stuck here while the CIA spent days making up their mind what they were going to do with her.

___What would make the Michael Westen she knew destroy his life?_The slender brunette combed her fingers through her chocolate-colored curls. The spy she remembered was a single-minded, career driven patriot, who could be incredibly self-centered in the pursuit of his passion, which was his work. ___Could he really have changed that much in the last eighteen months or did the petite auburn haired terrorist have some other hold over him?_

Ms. Keyes bit her bottom lip hard, a tick she had picked up from the man who had lived in her head since the day he'd gone back to whatever work he was doing on that fateful day. Her interrogator had informed her that Michael had nearly been killed in an oil refinery explosion; he'd been in the hospital for months and was obviously still suffering from the aftermath of a serious head injury.

Her captor had been oh so sympathetic to her pain, how terrible it must be for her to realize that the man she loved was no longer himself, thanks to that Irish colleen who had warped his already damaged brain, how much she must want to help them find his star pupil and bring him home before he finished throwing _his_ and _their_ lives away. Ms. Keyes knew she was being played. But she _did_ want those answers just as badly as her jailor did and she wasn't going to get them in here.

The master thief ground the heels of her hands into her eyes in an attempt to banish the exhaustion and the images that kept her from resting, the pictures of her comatose fiancé in ICU, her own memories of their naked bodies entwined together and the other surveillance photographs of him and those of him with that woman, ___holding hands, walking side by side, looking at her that way..._

When the door opened and her interrogator, or was he her tormentor, stepped inside her cell she found herself grateful for the distraction.

"You're free to go." He held the door open and gestured with a hand for her to get up and walk through.

"What's happened?" She got to her feet, but hesitated with fear filling her heart for her lover. ___Or was it more like her ex-lover now? How could Michael have done this to her, strung her along…?_

"Happened?" He gave her a puzzled look. "Why, nothing... It's simply that after our lengthy conversations, I went over your file again and realized my mistake."

He dropped his gaze to the floor and then, when he looked back up, there was pity in his eyes.

"It seems Agent Westen as it turns out was, uh... known to, ah, _romance _his female assets. Though umm, you are the only one we have managed to trace who was _apparently_ engaged to him. You should take some consolation in that..."

Her jaw tightened. Despite Michael's acceptance of her proposal, her captor had let slip that apparently the dark haired man had done nothing about clearing their engagement with the powers that be while subsequently petitioning to have ___his Irish asset _be granted protected status.

"But I've kept you too long. What I have here should speed you on your way." He handed her a large envelope. "There is a passport and travel documents, plus some cash in payment for your time. The passport will be cancelled after it's been used for one trip, to wherever you wish to go."

"Thank you," Samantha answered stiffly, not trusting herself to say anything more, before stepping forward and taking the envelope, peering inside to see a large sum of money and the documents. The brunette knew ___exactly _where she intended to go once she had been let loose.

Stepping out into the hallway, Ms. Keyes let him guide her along the maze of corridors towards her freedom. She knew the CIA was going to send someone to follow her. But she was confident and determined that she would give them slip soon enough and then the master thief would get the answers she needed when she finally located her wayward ex-fiancé and his Irish lover.

()()()()()()

On this morning, Fiona Glenanne woke with a smile on her face. She was lying on her side with the man she loved spooned up tight against her, one of his arms resting over her hip, his hand splayed protectively over the spot where their little one safely resided within her still-so-small belly. While no longer taut, her stomach still appeared flat. She could feel each of her baby's father's breaths as his lips brushed softly against her ear and the stubble of his growing beard tickled her neck.

This feeling was so completely right, cocooned in her man's embrace, safe and warm and free from cares the outside world. The auburn haired Irishwoman wished they could stay wrapped in each other's arms for the whole day, basking in the glow of their togetherness. It was a pleasant contrast, after the last few days of quiet desperation on her lover's part, to finally see him relax enough to…

"Fi, you awake?" The words were whispered, just as his lips sucked on her neck, finding the sweet spot behind her ear.

"Mmmm…." She hummed contently, wriggling slightly as her lover's hands began to wander.

She had missed this level of intimacy since they had gone on the run, most especially these past few days while Michael had silently stood watch, waiting for their pursuers to descend upon their position because of ___her_indiscretion, though he had never said as much verbally again.

She'd missed their early morning ritual which had begun not long after Michael had started staying overnight, first in her Belfast City flat and later in their Dublin home. His mouth was sucking and nipping on her throat, her shoulder and his hands moved against her body with a determined touch that reassured her anxious emotions as much as it set fire to her flesh. When she could stand it no more, she twisted in his arms and they melded together, strengthening their bonds.

Wrapping her legs about his trim waist, moaning aloud while her strong fingers played over the taut muscles of his back and then over his scalp, Michael had raised himself up on his elbows, gazing into her blue green eyes with adoration, as they swiftly soared upwards on a wave of passion before crashing back to earth, clinging tightly to each other as they waited for the aftershocks to cease.

"Stay here," he finally said afterwards, the gentleness in his voice making her believe this would all work out in the end. "I'll go boil some water so you can wash and then I'll make us some breakfast." He was half way out of bed, pulling his boxers and his pants back up when she stopped him.

"I have a better idea. Thar's plenty o' holiday homes, or second homes, out this way. A lot o' tham will be empty this time o' year. Why don't we find one an' treat ourselves ta a hot bath," and her smile implied more than cleaning up would be taking place. "An' wash our clothes as well?"

"Fi, I don't know. What if we're seen or someone comes in while we were in the middle of...?" He dropped his eyes for a second, acknowledging what they would most likely be caught doing wasn't laundry. "Don't these places normally have somebody keeping an eye on them, cleaners, handymen? It's too much of a risk." He put his shirt on and then pulled a face at the stale smell emanating from the garment. Michael stood up, his eyes scanning for his boots that she'd finally convinced him not to wear to bed.

"I know it's a risk, but wouldn't it be worth it fer a hot steamy bath or a shower?" She knelt on the bed unashamedly naked, her smile making him a promise of more than just a cleansing bath.

"Yes it would be nice," he agreed, thinking almost as much about clean clothing as about repeating what they had just done. It had been awhile since he'd had to wear the same dirty outfits for weeks on end and the memories were not pleasant ones. "But every time we take that car out, ___the stolen car__, _we're taking a chance on being seen by the cops and, after that ___encounter_with those girls, we need to be even more careful. We can't get too sloppy, Fiona. This is too important."

She crawled across the bed until they were face to face, her grin widening as she watched his resolve crumbling. She had lived her whole life on the edge. There was no such thing as safe, only varying degrees of less dangerous. She wasn't completely reckless, but life should be lived full because Fiona Gleanne knew all too well how swiftly it could be over in the blink of an eye.

"How about we go tonight under tha cover o' darkness? We could get another car like ya wanted ta. Thar's an airport not too far away an' a movie theater, plenty o' places ta find a new ride. Two birds wit' one stone... I promise I'll try my hardest to be a good quarterback or whotever it wa' ya called me." She took hold of his hand and coaxed him closer so she could press a kiss to his chin and then his lips. "It'd be ___fun_, Michael. Lotsa fun and ya cannae deny ya'd like ta smell alittle fresher."

With a long sigh, he nodded his agreement. "Fine, but not until it's dark and, if we don't find an empty house within an hour, we give it up and we get the new car first, one with a full tank of fuel."

"Thank ya." She beamed and then rewarded him by wrapping her arms about his neck and pressing her body up against his before kissing his breath away. He reluctantly released her to head into the bathroom to wash up in the cold water, which was necessary to return his focus to the tasks at hand.

Once she was alone, the young Irishwoman pulled on her clothes, grimacing when the jeans she had been wearing for the last two days felt tighter than they had the day before. Tugging on the zipper, she got the denim pants done up and then braced herself to enter the chilly morning air in the en suite with the hole in the roof.

()()()()()()

Colin Glenanne ran his hands through his bright red hair and then scrubbed at his weary green eyes. His brother Liam had set him an impossible task, but no one would dare disappoint the head of the family, most particularly not him. This intelligence work was ___his_contribution to the family.

The head of the family had always been supportive of his love of technology. Long before Liam had taken over the role, his older brother had been the one who had talked their Da into letting him join the after school club when the first computers had arrived at the local high school and, after their oldest brother's murder at the hands of the British, it had been Liam who had bought him the best computer available at the time to use his fledging hacking skills to search out the regiment and then the names of the soldiers responsible for the attack on their house and ever since then he had been employed as the family's communication and information gathering expert.

From one computer and six nights spent searching for a back-door into a government database, he now worked with over a dozen, all wired together to form one supercomputer which was working away on the problem of finding two needles in the giant haystack that was the Emerald Isle.

Wherever possible, he was piggybacking off the various agencies which had access to cameras covering all the official ways off the Isle by air and sea. He was also keeping watch on all the public spaces in the major cities and any police reports which contained a mention of a couple involved in petty crimes. All this information was then being analyzed by a complicated algorithm which was supplying him with a list of probable locations. He then had to check out the data by more traditional methods. So far, he had lots of small pieces of a puzzle, but no corner pieces which could help him build up a full picture of where his sister had fled with her boyfriend and Yank spy.

From the airport CCTV cameras at Shannon Airport, an image of McBride had been captured, the video capturing the man crossing the road, as if about to enter the terminal. But there had been no other images of either the American spy or Fiona inside the building. Having discounted the sighting as a ruse, he had set about backtracking the couple's possible routes out of Dublin to Limerick, searching for more clues to find their true destination.

On the night their youngest sibling had turned her back on her family, a small service station in Portloise had been broken into. A petrol pump had been switched on and used, the missing fuel roughly the amount necessary to fill up the tank on a medium sized family car, such as a Toyota Corolla, and stock had been taken off the shop shelves.

The list of missing goods had convinced him the breaking and entering had been done by his fugitive sister and her boyfriend, food, drink, batteries and a few magazines, which hadn't been named. But if he had to guess, he would lay money down it would be ones about fast cars, guns or fashion to keep Fiona entertained while the pair would have conducted whatever surveillance was necessary to ensure their safety. The local police report said it looked like a professional job, albeit cash had been left on the counter. Colin knew that meant the crime would be close to the bottom of the list to be investigated if it was on the list at all.

As well as the minor crime at the petrol station, a vehicle had been stolen that same night from a nearby hotel car park, a powerful BMW 6 Series, which was the type of vehicle Fiona would take and an ideal replacement for the Corolla, which had been discovered at the airport where McBride had conveniently let his face be seen. As it was obvious the couple hadn't escaped through the airport, Liam had ordered him to widen the search for the BMW and any sightings to the East.

_"____If it wa' me on tha run an' I'd laid down a trail in one direction an' then turn tail…" His brother' s pale blue eyes had narrowed in concentration. "Thar' either headin' ta tha North o' Limerick or gone East... My money tis on tha East... Find 'em fer me, Colin, an' donnae take ta long."_

That had been Liam's words of advice forty eight hours ago and he was no further forward. Getting to his feet, the exhausted Irishman sighed and headed for the door. He needed to take a break, clear his head and try to come up with some way of speeding up the search.

Leaving his office in the back room of the house he shared with Liam in the leafy suburbs of Holywood, Maeve Glenanne's fourth born child made his way into the kitchen for a cup of tea and something to eat. In a few hours time, the program he was running should have sorted through the police reports from the previous few days and supplied him with a list of petty crimes, such as break ins and car thefts, which might match what they knew of their sister and McBride and then would begin the tedious task of crossing each incident off the list.

How he wished he could bring his friends in to help him out. When not working for his brother, Colin was part of a hacking ring. It was those people who had helped him find the names of his little sister Claire's killer. They had also worked with him improving the firewalls on his own systems to keep MI5 and all the other intelligence agencies from discovering the family's secrets.

_He trusted them with his life._ Unfortunately, Liam didn't trust anybody outside the family with this particular secret. So he was on his own, main lining cans of Red Bull in an effort to stay awake the last thirty six hours with barely any sleep. Hearing the mechanical clatter of the garage door opening, Colin turned his attention to the screen displaying the images from the security cameras which surrounded the property.

"Great," he breathed and stood up straighter in preparation for the head of the family's arrival.

Liam Glenanne unfurled himself from behind the wheel of his girlfriend's bright red Lotus Esprit and, as he slammed the driver's side door shut, the passenger door opened and four little Yorkshire terriers clambered out, milling around the feet of the shapely blonde in skin tight clothing who rose gracefully from the passenger seat.

"Any news?" were Liam's first words, spoken as he crossed the threshold into the kitchen.

"Am waitin' fer tha latest police reports ta finish being sorted," Colin answered while squatting down to pet the small dogs which were now sniffing at his feet and trouser legs.

"We've not got long, brudder. Once tha next round o' talks are done an' signed, we cannae trust tha Brits ta keep thar big mouths shut."

"Yeah, well, I might have sommit fer ya on thot." Colin was pleased to be able to give his big brother some good news. "When tha CIA opened Westen's MI6 debriefs, I got us a copy. Thar's plenty we can use if we need some leverage. Fiona tol' Mc- Westen about tha Omagh bombing hours befer it wa' due ta go off... If thot comes out, wit' all tha authentic documents, wit' Fiona's name removed o' course, it'll cost tha Brits dear."

"Aye, thar's been rumors o' a conspiracy since it happened. But blackmail tis a risky business I'd rather not get us involved in, especially wit' tha Brits. It could bite us in tha arse." Liam paused for a second and then he reached a decision. "If we have ta, I'll have somebody approach Westen's bosses wit' tha news... But only as a last resort."

"I donnae know why yer so fired up about all this. Tis obvious Fi loves tha man an' he must love har back. Why else would he run off wit' har? Ya should be helpin' tham keep thar secret an' get outt tha country," Jeannie spoke up, as she opened the large refrigerator door and peered inside.

"Tis nothin' ta do wit' ya, woman," Liam growled at his girlfriend of close to fifteen years.

"Nuttin' ta do wit' me? Who'll be puttin' Fiona back together an' stoppin' har tryin' ta kill ya if ya harm har man? It'll be me an' yar Mammy, thot's who," his paramour retorted angrily.

Colin blinked and began to back away, not wanting to be dragged into an argument which had been going on ever since Liam had told the shapely blonde why he had lost his Mercedes and had come home stinking of burning tires and petrol.

It spoke of how strongly Jeannie felt about Fiona's love affair with a spy, as their distantly related cousin rarely disagreed with her long-time lover, at least not where others could hear her voice her ire. Leaving the couple to their war of words, the family communications specialist returned to his office and the next round of police reports on break-ins, car thefts or usual activity in the small towns throughout South Eastern Ireland.

_"____I suppose ya would have me tek on tha whole feckin' army an' destroy tha family jus' so me sister can keep a spy in har bed? Ya wan' ta go back ta tha days whar ya couldnae open yar front door wit' out fear o' bein' shot in tha face or get inta yar car an' wonder if ya had missed tha bomb planted tha night befer? Only difference it would nae be tha Proddies comin' after us this time, it'd be our own side."_

Liam rarely raised his voice, but these last few days it had been happening a lot. Colin closed the door to his inner sanctum and turned to his computer screens for comfort. He had to find something soon, anything which would give the family focus and stop all the discord.

Sitting down at his desk, he pressed down on several keys and brought up a list of reported petty crimes from shoplifting to speeding cars. Nothing jumped out at him at first until he noted the report of two seventeen year old Canadians on holiday making a citizen arrest on a pair of muggers who had stolen their handbags.

With the click of a key, he had all the details up on the screen. The two men were taller and heavier than the girls who took them on. One of them had been to prison for an assault and the other had a long list of previous convictions. ___This had promise... _The red headed Irishman checked for witness statements and ___there it was__…_ the mention of a tall, dark haired man and a smaller woman, hair color unknown, who had been spotted at the scene. But they had left before the police arrived.

It wasn't much, but it was more than they'd had before. At least it would give the head of family something to do besides fret and fume over his powerlessness to control the situation.

Colin packaged the details of the incident along with a few road maps and pressed 'print.' Liam could be in the town of Waterford well before morning the way his big brother drove. With any luck, this would be the lead that broke the case and ended the family crisis...

_Except if he did find them, there's no telling what Liam would do to Mc—his sister's boyfriend…_

The redhead found his hand shaking as he lifted the paper from the printer. _No, it wasn't the end of the family crisis, it was just the beginning. __Because no matter what happened from here on out, the Glenanne family, which had suffered so much death and tragedy, would never be the same again_.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **_First as usual of late, an apology for the delay in getting out the chapter. We're pretty sure all you fabulous Burners would rather wait and get a better chapter, but we're still sorry for the wait. We hope that another longer than usual update will suffice. Thank you for your continued support. _

_This week, _**_two_**_ chapters of __Be Brave Little Angel__ will be posted, one today and one this Friday so as to make room for a special holiday edition of __Reconnecting__ 501 on next Monday, which is Labor Day in the US. This will be the next installment of the __High Risk, High Reward__ series, where Michael and Fiona learn to deal with some of the consequences of their former high risk lifestyle._

_Then next Thursday, __Life with Larry__ will return to its regular slot. For those of you who have been wondering, Larry only has two more chapters of getting things his way until Michael's awakening. So hang in there with us. Michael spent three years under Larry's influence, but that is almost over._

_Meanwhile, all the forces aligned against our lovers begin to converge in a small Irish town…._

**()()()()()()()()()()**

**BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL**

**Chapter Eight**

Samantha Keyes had breathed a huge sigh of relief when she'd reached her destination. _Now, finally, she would get the answers she wanted… no, not wanted, the answers she needed._

Once the brunette had been freed from her holding cell in the CIA's secret facility hidden beneath the US Embassy, she had wasted no time in getting away from the building. She had known she was being monitored and followed. But her luck had held when they'd brought her here to London. The master thief had contacts, assets and friends in the capital city and she was soon making coded calls.

She had checked into the Holiday Inn London Heathrow near the airport in order to get washed up and rested before boarding a plane the next morning. Samantha had been looking forward to a hot shower, clean clothes, a decent meal and resting in a comfortable bed, free from the surveillance cameras watching her every move. At least whoever was tailing her, be it MI6 or her former fiancé's employer, they were doing it from a distance _outside_ her room.

_Former fiancé…_the words had slipped from her lips with such ease and yet there was a part of her that still refused to believe it. _It seems Agent Westen as it turns out was, uh... known to, ah, __romance __his female assets. Though umm, you are the only one we have managed to trace who was __apparently__ engaged to him. You should take some consolation in that... _her captor had told her

The weary woman had lain on her back staring at the ceiling, suddenly oblivious to the soft mattress and the fluffy comforter into which she had nestled. Once finally alone, Ms Keyes had given into her grief. _Of course_ she and Michael lied to everyone. That was part of their jobs; they had even told lies to each other for practice and amusement. _Had she been an utter fool to think she was exception to the rule?_ Being with him had been so easy. _Had it been too easy?_ _ Had he taken what he wanted of her, used her like an asset and moved on? _What other reason could there be for him to accept her proposal and then disappear from her life, only to take up with another woman?

The tears she had no longer tried to contain had fallen from her blood shot brown eyes, thoroughly wetting her pillow. It had been part of her job to be able to read people. _How could she have been so wrong about him?_ _Did he really have some sort of brain damage from the explosion? Or was it one more trick on the part of his CIA masters, playing her in an effort to retrieve their prized property? _

Samantha had swiped at her eyes and had attempted to push away the conclusion that kept resurfacing in her brain over and over from the moment she had settled safely onto the plane having finally ditched her shadow despite her efforts to dismiss it. _She couldn't think of another reason_.

When she had proposed to him, Samantha had very carefully laid out an image of their lives, no kids, no entanglements, the high life they both enjoyed, him as an operative and her as an acquisitions specialist, aiding and abetting each other as necessary and then bedding each other when they were done. It had been the perfect vision of joining their lives together. _But what if her suspicion was right and the Irishwoman was carrying Michael's child? _ _If she was right, what then?_

_It had to have been an accident or the Irishwoman had trapped him deliberately_... the master thief had told herself. Except the Michael Westen she knew would have never made those kinds of mistakes...

_But that love struck man in that photograph very well might have._

Her jailer had also made another mistake, though she had a hard time believing the CIA officer who held her prisoner would have accidentally allowed her to learn what Michael's cover ID for his Irish mission had been. Regardless of how she had come by the intel, Ms. Keyes fully intended to use it to begin her search for the dark haired man and the auburn haired woman who'd broken her heart.

()()()()()()()

Jeannie Donahue carried two cups of tea from the kitchen through to the lounge and, after placing one down on the small table next to her lover's arm, the leggy blonde took a seat on the opposite arm of his chair. "Am sorry fer questioning ya," she spoke softly, letting the fingers of one hand play through Liam Glenanne's short sandy brown hair. "But thot donnae change tha fact yar sister is gonna be madder than all hell wit' tha lot o' us."

"D'ya think I don't know thot?" His arm snaked about her waist and pulled her down onto his lap. "But thar's no other way... Our Ma wants me ta bring Fiona an' Westen ta her so she can talk ta them both, make 'em see sense."

Jeannie raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow. "It wonnae help. Fiona's in love an' she's not gonna listen ta anything ya have ta say. They stayed wit' me, las' year jus' befer Christmas. I saw 'em together. They fight like cats 'n dogs, but I could tell he loves har back. There's only one way you'll get em apart an' if ya do it, Fi will hate us all." The blonde pressed a kiss to Liam's temple.

"I have ta think o' tha whole family, not jus' Fiona. Sean and Seamus have children. Me Ma is nae so young any more. If anyone on tha council gets a whiff thot I've lied ta them, ya know whot will happen. Am tha head o' tha family. I make tha hard choices an' I have ta live wit' whot I do."

"I know ya do, an' I won't say another word against whot ya have planned." She trailed kisses from his ear to his lips. Her fingers, which had been playing through his hair, now slipped around his neck as he deepened the kiss. When they drew apart, she stroked a hand down his cheek. "Jus' promise me ya'll think on it some more?"

"Bloody hell, ya have a perfectly good bedroom fer all thot stuff." Colin came to a stop in the doorway, a grin lighting up his features just for a second before he entered the room completely and handed his older brother the information he had found. "Am pretty sure thar in Waterford. All tha details ar' har."

Liam was on his feet in an instant, nearly dropping Jeannie to the floor in the process. The older man opened the file and skimmed over the printed sheets, ignoring the glare from his girlfriend.

"Took ya long enough," he grumbled and then cracked a smile at his younger brother. "See whot else ya can find... They have ta be hiding out nearby. Check tha estate agents fer empty houses and buildings while I let Sean and Seamus know whot's goin' on. Wa're gonna need o' way of losing thot MI6 shadow we picked up yesterday..." the eldest Glenanne continued, already thinking of what his next moves would be. "Jeannie, I want ya ta stay har wit' Colin. Am gonna have somebody watch house while Am away. Will ya pack me a bag, darlin' ?"

Liam's long-time lover got to her feet without speaking. There was little point in it as the remorseless predator who lived in her lover's soul had taken over now that he had a direction to aim his wrath. Pushing by his younger sibling, whose confused expression told her he had no idea what he'd done to earn the death stare she'd sent his way, Ms. Donahue went up the staircase to the large master bedroom at the back of the house.

As much as she wanted to continue arguing for Fiona's happiness, she knew the head of the clan would not listen to her any more, especially as she'd already made a promise not to say anything else on the subject. Jeannie had already said as much as she could. She just hoped she'd given Liam something to think about. The blonde had always known there was a certain price to be paid for choosing to stay by _her man's_ side and she had done so for the last fifteen years without a single regret.

_Michael McBride or Westen or whatever ya call yarself, if ya wa' har in front o' me right now, I'd put a bullet through yar heart __meself__ fer whot yer doin' ta this family._

With that thought foremost in her mind, she began to pull a few days worth of clothes out of the drawers in the bedroom dresser, stuffing them into a bag while trying not to think about what her man was plotting downstairs with his kin.

()()()()()()()

"Will ya stop pouting, Michael? I swear ya'll thank me for this after you've hadda hot steamy shower an' got inta some clean clothes." Fiona walked out through the back door of their hideaway, plastic carrier bags filled with their dirty clothes in each hand, while Michael walked ahead of her with the canvas bag containing the emergency supplies he insisted on taking along, just in case.

"I'm not pouting," her lover muttered. "I'm -"

"Sulking? Moping?" She offered alternatives.

He stopped by the trunk of the BMW and turned to face her. Even in the dark, she could tell how uneasy he was about leaving the safety of their nest.

"Fi, I get that _you_ _feel_ the need to be doing something. But each time we show ourselves, we risk being exposed. The intelligence agencies are on high alert at the moment. They'll be flooding any location they think we're hiding in with people whose sole purpose is to bring us in or ..."

His words dried up, not wanting to finish the sentence.

"And that's why _I_ suggested that we plant those little devices you've got in yar bag along our escape routes as insurance."

Although the spy had agreed at first to venturing out to find a vacant holiday cottage so they could bathe and wash their limited supply of clothing, as the day had gone on she had sensed a reluctance creeping into the discussion about the logistics of their trip.

"_Yer worried about somebody trailin' us back har an' trappin' us inside? We have tha hole in tha roof ta get outta any trap they set, an' how about if I cut down tha size o' tha warning charges outside an' make sommit we can use ta throw up road blocks ta cover our escape?"_

So, the ex-guerrilla had sweetened the pot by suggesting they lay some explosive charges against the stone walls that lined the narrow road outside the abandoned cottage. This way they could block the road behind them if they were discovered and had to run.

"And that's another reason why I'm agreeing to this crazy idea." The main reason being that before they found a property to break into, they would first find another car as the details of the stolen BMW had to have gone national by now and, as they only had one county between Limerick and Waterford, it seemed prudent to exchange the high performance vehicle for something less showy and more common to the area.

With the bags full of clothing in the trunk of the car, Fiona unzipped the canvas hold all containing their emergency supplies and pulled out four small bombs wrapped in cling film to make sure the electronics stayed dry. "I'll go plant two o' these along tha road west o' har, while ya clear tha driveway so we can be on our way. Then I'll plant tha other two on tha eastbound road as wa're leaving."

Nodding his assent, Fiona watched as the former operative began the arduous task of removing the branches which kept the car hidden from any passers-by before jogging away to take care of her part of the plan.

Finding suitable spots in the waist high walls was easy. Digging holes right up against the structures, Patrick Glenanne's little girl made sure the blasts, when activated, would send the stones into the road, blocking the path of any vehicles chasing after them.

Once the charges were set in both directions, Michael drove towards Waterford and the new Odeon multi-screen cinema complex, a place with a large car park, very little security and said car owners who were guaranteed to be away from their vehicles for at least the duration of a movie.

Leaving the BMW parked on a back street nearby, the couple waited in the shadows until the last of the crowd going into the late night showings had disappeared inside and then began their search of the car park. Michael had made it very clear that they wanted a vehicle which would fit in with the local area, nothing flashy but in good condition.

It was Fiona who had pointed out the beige three year old Land Rover Discovery. Her lover pulled a face; it was a big lumbering vehicle with terrible handling and no great turn of speed. He shook his head and went to move on when the petite redhead caught hold of his arm and pointed to her choice and then gestured with the same digit for him to look around.

"Ya want sommit thot will nae stand out or d'ya want sommit _flashy_?" she hissed.

The ex-agent pursed his lips. _She had a point_. At least a quarter of the parking spaces were taken up with similar heavy 4x4 vehicles typical to the farming area.

"Fine," he capitulated. "But let's take a few precautions." He knelt down behind her choice and began to remove the number plate from their chosen ride. "We'll swap a few number plates around. People only tend to notice if their plate is _missing_. With a bit of luck, it will take the Garda a while to work out which ones we've put on this one." The former spy smiled smugly.

It took up extra time. But well before any of the movies being shown had finished, they managed to exchange the number plates on four different Discovery's and made their escape in their chosen vehicle. They drove over to where they had left the BMW and quickly transferred their supplies and dirty laundry into their new auto. Then, with Michael behind the wheel of the BMW and Fiona following in the Discovery, they left Waterford behind heading eastwards away from their hide out.

Time passed until eventually the dark haired man saw what he was looking for: a break in the dense bushes and thickets which lined the road, exposing the deep ditch which ran behind the hedgerows. Slowing down, he drove the car off the road and into the ditch, filled with foul smelling water from the run off of the fields and masses of weeds.

Clambering out once the wheels were no longer moving it forward, Mr. Westen flashed a grin when he realized he had chosen just the right spot. Standing at the roadside, the only part of the little blue car visible was a glimpse of the red and yellow rear lights. After a little bit of rearranging of the tall weeds and wild flowers growing out of the damp soil, the discarded vehicle was completely invisible. Now the BMW was literally ditched, the couple drove towards the coast in the Land Rover, searching for a suitable holiday home to borrow for the night.

"We'll drive to the edges of Wexford and then drive back towards Waterford. But if we don't find anything by the time we reach the bridge over the Suir, we forget about your plan, okay?"

"We'll find somewhar, Michael. I promise," Fiona replied firmly, her eyes fixed on the road ahead but also briefly glancing to the side every time they passed by a likely cottage or farmhouse.

()()()()()()()

"Ya cannae do this." Rosie Glenanne slapped her hand down over the top of her husband's rifle bag, her blue eyes filled with not only unshed tears but determination too. "It's yar sister an' yar friend."

"_Friend_," Sean spat out the word. "McBride wa' _nae_ me friend. McBride donnae even exist, ya daft woman. Michael _Westen_ used me ta get his hooks inta Fiona. He sat in our house, lying ta our faces... We let tha feckin' bastid babysit ta give him an' Fi some alone time. _We_ left thot fecker _alone_ wit' our _babbies_, Rosie! He's no feckin' friend o' mine an' he shouldnae be yars either." He lifted the rifle case and a rucksack holding all he would need for a few days away hunting down his sister and an American spy.

"Sean, _please._.." Rosie pleaded as she caught hold of her beloved's arm.

The PIRA enforcer turned quickly, prepared to continue the argument. That is, until he saw his wife's tear streaked face and then he drew her into his arms, letting her cry into his chest while he ran a soothing hand up and down her back.

"It'll be alright, sweetheart, I promise it'll be fine."

"H-h-how c-can ya say thot?" she stuttered.

"Cuz it will. Fi has jus' got pulled in by thot man. Once she's away fram him, she'll understand."

"Nar she wonnae, I tell ya. She'll hate us all."

"She knows tha rules, darlin'. She wonnae like it. Thot's why we cannae give har tha choice. But she'll come round in tha end."

"Ya could get 'em outta tha country... help 'em ta hide…"

"An' whot happens when thot bastid Westen gets bored o' hidin' an' goes back ta MI6 an' sells us all out ta get his job back? Or mabbe tha Brits get tha word out thot Fi has run off wit' one o' their spies an' she's not around ta call tham a liar? No, sweetheart, it has ta be this way." He kissed her head and then backed away just as a car horn sounded outside. "Thot's Liam. I have ta go. He's leaving one o' his men ta watch tha house tonight an' he'll take ya all o'er ta me Mum's in tha morning. Yer ta stay thar 'til I come an' get ya...d'ya understand me, Rosie?" He waited for her to nod her assent. "Nar give tha kids one fer me. I'll be back soon."

After an all too short embrace, Sean's wife stood at the doorway and watched her husband and his oldest brother drive away. Once the door was closed, she slipped down to the floor and let the tears flow. She was scared, more scared than the day she'd kissed her own family goodbye at seventeen and already pregnant to live with Sean Glenanne and his kin across the water in a country she'd only heard stories of in the past.

She had never thought of herself as living a sheltered life, born and raised in the East End of London, part of a large community of first and second generation English Irish. Her father had worked on the docks until they closed and then he had found work on the building site, which was turning rundown dockland into luxury offices and flats.

But in his spare time, Mr. Flanagan was also one of the main fund raisers for the boys back home, walking around the pubs and clubs on a Friday and Saturday night with a bucket collecting the money which would find its way into the war chest of the PIRA.

Listening to stories about the Troubles, how her dad had run the streets of Belfast and Derry with Patrick Glenanne Junior and his gang of miscreants had not prepared her for this reality. Oh, she knew of the punishment meted out to traitors and informers. She had washed the blood out of her husband's clothes too many times to mention. _But this wa' Fiona and McBride…t__hey'd drank together, broken bread together, played cards together, trusted her wee ones ta the pair o' tham..._

"Mammy…." A two year old year little girl with a head of soft white blonde curls stood at the top of the stairs peering down over the baby gate at her. "Mammy down now?"

Sniffing and wiping away the tears, Rosie got to her feet. "Whot are ya doin' up, Sian? Tis still night. Ya should be asleep."

"Dwink please…" Two pudgy hands lifted up, opening and closing.

"No drink. Tis bedtime… Ya should be asleep, little angel."

With a sigh, the young mother reached the top of the stairs and opened the gate, lifting her baby girl into her arms. Hugging Sian tightly to her chest, she walked back slowly to the little's one room.

"_Ya donnae ask whar' they go or whot thar doin'. Trust me, ya donnae wan' ta know. Tis better this way," had been her sister-in-law Isabelle's advice when she had complained that Sean would never talk about what he did or where he went when he went out in the evenings._

But how could she do that, remain silent, when all she could see was the destruction of the family she had grown to love?

()()()()()()()

The journey between Wexford and Waterford took just over an hour in the middle of the night when there was no other traffic on the roads and, as the minutes ticked by, Fiona was becoming more and more frustrated. There were plenty of places with boards up outside, declaring that they were available to rent. However, for one reason or another, they were unsuitable for their needs.

"_It's straight onto the road. Where are we gonna leave the car without it being seen?"_

"_This one's no good, Fi. It's right next door to another house. They probably own both. It's too much of a risk."_

"_I know they're all holiday homes, but what if one of them is rented out for tomorrow? The cleaning staff will spot our car or they could be cleaning them all and barge in on us. No, we need something more private, more remote."_

"Fi..." Michael tapped her arm and pointed to the lights up ahead which signified they were getting closer to Waterford. "I think we should forget -"

"No.. I want a proper wash with _hot_ water," she replied stubbornly, her slender fingers flexing around the steering wheel.

"It's too dangerous. We shouldn't be out in the open."

"We'll find sommit." She turned off the main road onto a back road, which was so narrow twigs and branches were brushing against the passenger side of the large car.

"We're not going to find anything up here."

"Ya cannae know thot. A lotta people like these outta tha way cottages. Ya said ya wanted remote." Then, as if just to prove her point, she took a tight bend and up a hill and there it was: a small whitewashed farmhouse with security shutters over the windows and no other houses nearby.

Bringing the car to a stop, they both stared at the outside of the property.

"I think we can safely assume tha house tis unoccupied," the redhead smirked.

"It's nearly two in the morning, Fi. We need to be -"

"Hot water cascading down yar back an' over yar head, Michael? Soap ta wash away tha stink -"

"Stink?" His eyes widened at her accusation.

"Aye, Am sorry ta be tha one tellin ya, but ya stink, Michael.., An' ya say yer worried about us being seen and yet ya have us sat in the middle o' tha road, lookin' like a pair o' amateur burglars."

"We can't leave this on the driveway. We'll be announcing to anybody passing by that somebody is inside." He peered through the wind shield and then out of the back window. "There was a farm track or a footpath just before we went up the hill. We'll leave the car there and come back on foot."

Cupping her cheek, he stared into his lover's blue green eyes, his own blue orbs pleading with her to listen. "Remember, any trouble, any trouble at all and your job is to run... I mean it, Fi, I – I can't do this if you don't stick to the rules."

She solemnly nodded her head in agreement. She wasn't sure if she could keep the promise, but she would do her damnedest to follow his lead. _Unless o' course he rushed headlong inta a do-o'-die situation and needed har help ta escape and then all bets war off._

After using the driveway of their chosen residence to turn around, Fiona drove back down the hill and maneuvered the Land Rover onto the narrow track. Then, with all their bags in their hands, the pair made their way quickly back to the whitewashed farmhouse.

The door lock took Fiona less than twenty seconds to pick and once inside the alarm took Michael ten seconds to disable. With the shutters still down blocking out the outside world, the former covert operative deemed it was safe to flick the light switch and illuminate the hallway.

"We should clear the rooms first," he whispered drawing his hand gun from his waistband.

"Aye, we should," the paramilitary soldier agreed. Leaving the bags full of laundry on the floor, she drew her own weapon and they began to move room to room, making sure there was no surprises lurking the dark shadows.

Downstairs consisted of the hallway where they had started, a large living room tastefully decorated with comfy looking furniture and a lots of pictures and paintings of the local area on the walls. At the back of the house was an equally large traditional looking farmhouse kitchen with a utility room at the side where plenty of coat hooks hung with room for muddy walking boots on the floor along with an indoor washing line and a large washer/dryer in one corner.

A quick look in all the cupboards and fridge showed there was a full compliment of utensils, including plates, bowls and cups and saucers, but no food and only a small jar of coffee, a few teabags and bowl of sugar.

"Well thar's nothin' ta eat," Fiona announced before twisting the hot tap and watching the water rush out, splashing in the sink and, after a few seconds, steam rose as the cold liquid turned hot. "But plenty o' hot water. C'mon lets checkout upstairs and find tha bathroom." She grabbed his hand, turned off the tap and lead them towards the carpeted staircase back in the hall.

He stopped along the way to put the security chain on the front door and wedge a chair under the handle._ It wouldn't stop anyone determined to get inside but it'd be enough to slow them down._

()()()()()()()

"Here, I've taken tha liberty o' packin' a few things fer Fi. They barely took a thin' wit' them when they ran. She's gonna be grateful fer a change o' clothes." Isabelle handed her husband a second bag from the back seat of the old Mitsubishi Shogun that was their main form of transport.

They were standing on Seamus Glenanne's private jetty hidden amongst the small bays and inlets along the eastern coast of Ireland, preparing to take his power boat which was usually used for gun or people smuggling between the Ireland and the English coast when it wasn't speeding over to the west coast of France or Spain.

Staring up into his wife's green eyes, Seamus let his fingers brush over Isabelle's hand as he took the small back pack and, not for the first time, thanked his lucky stars that she had accepted his proposal all those years ago.

"Ya think it'll be enough ta stop har puttin' holes in tha lot o' us?" He dropped the bag down onto the floor of the boat, next to the one with his own personal belongings and the larger bag containing the hardware he thought might be necessary to bring down an American spy.

"Ya could leave tham be," Isabelle replied softly. "Ya know damn well ya could get them away, set tham up far away fram here."

"Aye an' I would if I could. Ya'll be getting no argument fram me abou' thot. Ya know thot already, darlin' an' ya know tis nae me decision ta make."

"Aye, well maybe after a few days on tha run, tha romance will have run it's course an' yar sister will have come ta har senses."

Seamus chuckled and made a grab for his wife's hand, pulling her down so he could plant a kiss on her lips. "Ya donnae believe thot any more than I do. Thot's me Mam's wishful thinkin'. Speakin' o' which, Liam wants ya ta take tha kids over ta tha old girl's house. He says it'll be easier if every one is in one place."

"An' he want's someone ta keep an eye on Rosie... Tha poor girl is mortified by all this."

"Calm har down, Belle. Help har understand." Seamus placed a kiss to Isabelle's forehead and then let her stand back up. "Now ya best be goin'. Liam an' Sean will be har soon an' ya don't want ta get seen by tha Brit spooks he's tryin' ta lose."

He watched the love of his life climb in behind the wheel and close the doors on the large SUV.

His Belle had been like a rock for him to cling onto ever since they had first met while still at school. She had seen him through the bad times when his father had been murdered in prison and then later when he had returned from his second time in internment to find he had missed his older brother's funeral. The green eyed beauty had been at his side when Claire had been murdered and even worked at his side when he was short handed, smuggling guns past army check points or negotiating with arms dealers when he'd been too ill to make it to a meeting.

With a sigh, he turned his attention to making sure everything on board was tied down securely. As soon as his brothers arrived, they were going to have to set off fast if they were going to stay ahead of their pursuers... _This business with Fiona and her boyfriend was just another storm he and Belle would have to weather together_.

()()()()()()()

Venturing upstairs to the second floor, the fugitive couple found two double bedrooms and a single large bathroom with a roll topped bath and a double shower cubicle.

"Can't ya just feel all thot lovely hot water? God, it'll be good ta wash me hair." Fiona combed her fingers through her short boyish locks, grimacing at both the feel of her unwashed hair and the unaccustomed length. "Am glad ya' cut it, if this is gonna be our lives from now on."

"It won't be," Michael promised, stepping out of the bathroom to place a shotgun at the top of the stairs and another outside the bathroom door. "We should leave this door open. In fact, we should leave all the doors open so we have a clear view just in case."

"I donnae care," she replied as the petite woman took his gun from his hand and placed it under a towel on top of the toilet before turning on the water in the large shower cubicle. "All I care about is thot I've left yar gun nearby an' safe fram the moisture, an' now, Michael Westen, yer strippin' off or d'ya intend on showering wit' yar clothes on?" As she reached for the zipper on his jacket, his hand closed over hers, his deep blue eyes pleading for her to stop.

"I thought we'd take turns that way -"

She pursed her lips and then nodded, backing away from him heading for the door.

"Fine, you go first."

"Fi -" He knew he had hurt her feelings and didn't want to start another argument. But from her expression, she was in no mood to listen to his reasoning.

"No, you first. Jus' throw out yar clothes an' I'll stick 'em in tha machine."

"I -"

"Thar's a towelling dressing gown hanging on tha door. Yer gonna have ta wear thot while yer waiting fer yar clothes ta dry," she spoke over the top of him, while crossing her arms across her chest. "I really donnae why yer bein' like this. Thar's no cleaners or gardeners gonna be around at this time o' night. Will ya calm down already?"

_She was right._ No one knew they were inside the house and nobody would be checking on the property in the middle of the night. But that didn't mean he was the least bit comfortable making himself vulnerable like this. Sucking in a breath, he let it out slowly and then began to disrobe.

Flinging each item of clothing out on to the landing, where Fiona waited to pick them up and carry them downstairs to the laundry room, he thought about calling her back and offering an apology however, he didn't have the strength to deal with the added drama while fighting down his paranoia.

Living with Fiona Glenanne was never easy. She was passionate, strong willed and had a fiery temper which could spark without warning, all things which had attracted him to her in the first place. He didn't know if it was the pregnancy hormones or just their present situation, but now every facet of her character seemed magnified and it was driving him nuts.

The hot water eased away the tension in his muscles and washed away the grime of so many days on the run and sleeping in a derelict cottage. _He had never wanted things to go the way they had. He should have done what Card wanted and left. He could have quietly resigned in another three months and sent word for her to meet him in another country_. Pressing his knuckles against the tiled wall, the former spy shut his eyes and tried to clear his head.

He was so lost in his thoughts that the first he knew of the figure behind him was when she pressed her naked body against his back, reaching around for one of the complimentary bottles of body wash on the shelf embedded in the shower wall.

"Let me help ya with thot and then ya can do me."

Her hands smoothed over his taut frame, working in the cleaner, massaging away the last bits of tightness from his muscles. Her lips following where her hands had been down his back before she moved around to face him, her slender fingers skimming over his chest and down his torso.

The tactical part of his brain wanted to tell her off for deserting her post, the spy in him was screaming in his head to remind her of their situation, that now was not the time for this. But his heart knew that she needed this and that in truth he needed this too.

His own heart stuttered when she dropped down in front of him, her hands stroking up and down his thighs and over his calf muscles, making his whole being hum with the prospect of what was coming next.

Looking down he saw, despite the water pouring down upon her face, that she was watching him a with smile on her lips. "Ya feet... Pardon me fer sayin' this, but they need a real scrubbing. Yar socks near on walked themselves into tha wash."

They locked eyes as she massaged one foot and then the other before she went back to stroking her hands up over his calves and thighs and higher still, her lips pressing kisses, licks and doing other things until his legs trembled and he sagged back against the wall of the shower cubicle, breathless and shaking as she took him all the way to heaven.

Smiling brightly, she rose up and picked up another of the bottles and handed it to him.

"Now, yar turn ta do me."

"Yes, Ma'am," he whispered as his lips grazed hers.

()()()()()()()

Tom Card poured himself a large glass of whiskey and stared into the cut glass tumbler at the rich amber liquid, wondering how in the hell he had let himself be dragged into such a colossal pigscrew as he found himself in right now. Pursing his lips, he glanced at his watch. It was only a few hours off dawn and, in the last three days, he had managed no more than a few hours sleep.

With an annoyed huff, the CIA officer took a long sip from the glass and began to pace about his small office, deep underground. He glanced at the wall. That was another thing to add to his irritation. What he would give for a view right now instead of a plain off white wall with only a large map of Ireland to break up the monotony.

Dan Siebels, Michael Westen's US handler hadn't been much help. Once he'd known he was unlikely to get anything useful from the rogue agent's fiancée, Samantha Keyes, he'd called Dan back to ask if he knew of anybody else who might shed some light on Westen's suicidal flight. After all the man was suppose to monitor the agents under his control. But all Siebels had offered him was Rayna Kopec, the Russian Station chief who had been Michael's previous boss and the name of a SEAL commander who had worked several missions with Westen both before and after Raines had enticed the young recruit to join the Agency.

He thought about contacting SC Kopec, but only for a second. They had been contemporaries at the Farm and had been _professional_ to one another at best. Siebels had already informed him about the women's interference after the Vedeno fiasco. He wondered briefly whose bright idea had it been to partner his star pupil with that maniac Sizemore for a second time after their previous assignment had come within an inch of causing an international incident. Card was sure there was more to that situation than Michael's handler was letting on. The Michael Westen he had trained had more sense than to risk his career by blowing up a factory full of civilians...

But then again, he'd just thrown his promising career away on a pretty face. So maybe he and Raines had been wrong about the young agent's potential. However, even as he was thinking it, Card knew that was a lie. Michael had a natural talent for the job. They had both seen it. The training officer swirled the fiery liquid around the glass again before taking a sip.

_There had to be another answer to the question_... His star pupil had almost died, suffering a serious head injuries both times, before he had done something complete aberrant to his character in Vedeno and in Ireland. _Perhaps Westen had been returned to duty prematurely after all._ There was no way the man he had trained would let a woman go to his... well, maybe somewhere lower than his head... but Michael had never been one to think with his balls. _There had to be more to it than a girl who had somehow gotten into the covert operative's head and turned him around._

Dropping into a chair, Tom Card finished the whiskey and slapped the glass down on his desk, kicking himself again for not looking into the situation earlier when he'd been surreptitiously warned about what was going on in Ireland. It had been a long day, well, a long week in truth and he was beginning to give serious thought to causing his own international incident by putting a bullet between the eyes of his UK opposite number, Richard Chambers. The MI6 officer had made it very clear that he wanted Westen out of Ireland, yet at the same time the upper class pain in the ass was blocking his every move to get his guy on a plane back to the States.

"_I have a full team of men running surveillance on the Glenannes around the clock. You would only be in the way, old boy... I'll keep you informed if they make a move. Shouldn't you be gathering intelligence on Westen's international contacts? It might give a clue to where he is going to run to... Not that I should have to tell you that, Agent Card."_

Tom pursed his lips, unsure whether to hang around the office in case Chambers deigned to update him on the manhunt or go off to his bed in his assigned quarters within the embassy.

"To hell with it." He grumbled, getting to his feet. The sandy haired man yawned, stretched and walked towards the door. After a few hours sleep, he would be ready to do battle with Chambers and get some of his own team involved in the operation. Or better yet, maybe that British psychopath Gilroy would remember to follow procedure and actually check in.

He was just heading out of the door when his phone began to ring. Rushing back, he picked it up, silently praying for some good news. "Tell me you've found him."

"I beg your pardon? Found who? Oh, Westen. No, sorry. I'm calling you because Liam Glenanne is on the move. Liam left his home in the north and is making his way to the south. He has a driver with him and has left two other men on guard outside his house."

"You have air support. From what I've heard-"

"We know what we're doing, _Agent_ Card. This was just a courtsey call to keep you in the loop. When I have more news, I'll pass it on."

"Chambers? _CHAMBERS? Dammit!_" Card slammed the handset down, his face suffused with anger at being treated like some minor annoyance by the MI6 officer.

He was all too aware how tailing an expert, which he believed Liam Glenanne to be, was going to be near on to impossible without the back up of a helicopter providing support from high above.

_To hell with protocol! _This was the first bit of actionable intel since Westen disappeared. Whatever the oldest Glenanne sibling was up to, it had to be worth investigating. He snatched up the handset and put a call through to the State Department and, after some fast talking and a little bit of exaggeration, he managed to get the authority to by pass MI6 and get his own helicopter up into the air to follow the target.

Feeling a rush after getting the first bit of good news in a crappy week, Mr. Card paused to revel in the moment when the phone lit up, indicating an incoming call. Another wave of adrenaline flowed through him when he saw who it was and all but shouted at the man on the other end of the phone.

"Gilroy, nice of you to finally check in," he bellowed, sarcasm dripping from his voice. _Now it was time to find out if the former MI6 agent had any news on Westen's ex-fiancée._

"Careful, old man, my mood's a bit dodgy today. Things did not go as anticipated and I have to confess I considered—"

"Wait a minute, sport, what do you mean, didn't go as anticipated? What the hell happened?"

"Turns out our little thief was a bit more clever than you or I gave her credit for. She managed to give me the slip in the airport…" Card could hear the fury simmering beneath Gilroy's cultivated accent. "But no matter, I sussed out where she's headed and I can be—"

"Forget her!" the CIA officer cut the assassin off again. "I have credible intel on Liam Glenanne. I'm getting a chopper on him now and we're going follow him right to our little lovebirds' nest."

"Sounds promising," the Brit agreed. "I'm near Kilkenny. Can you sort out another one of those fancy birds of yours to come pick me up at the airport there?"

"As soon as we hang up," the senior agent affirmed. "Don't waste any time getting there."

"Hopefully you'll have their location by the time my ride is here. A good manhunt will be just the thing to settle my nerves."

"Remember, I need _Michael _alive," Card cautioned.

"Oh, I'll take _special care _of our lad," Gilroy promised. "I'm rather looking forward to this."

And the Company man wisely kept the rest of his comments to himself as he terminated the call.

()()()()()()()

Cleaned up and with fresh clothing, Michael and Fiona wiped down every surface they had touched and made sure the house looked no different than it had been before their arrival. Resetting the alarm, they left the property just before dawn making it back to the Land Rover in time to avoid being seen by the milk lorry making its way to all the dairy farms in the area.

"We should get a cooked breakfast," Fiona suggested. "I'm famished. Aren't ya fair famished, Michael?"

He smiled at her but shook his head. "We've taken all the risks we're going to. In fact, we should get back to the cottage and stay there until the food runs out... I'm not joking, Fi. Sooner or later, hell is gonna rain down on us. We need to start being more careful."

"Yer still worried about tha girls, ar' ya nae? I swear I can read people an' those two girls willnae give us up ta tha Gard or me family."

He shook his head again and then winced when her sharp little fist punched his leg.

"Michael, stayin' in thot cottage is driving me insane. All I can think about is I shot at me brother and is this gonna be our life from now on. I need sommit ta keep me occupied. One hot meal is not gonna hurt. Besides, I'm meant ta be eatin' fer tha babby now too. Nobody knows whar we ar'. We've avoided traffic cameras an' CCTV, an' we've nae even seen anybody who looks like a spy."

"By the time we spot a field agent, it'll be too late." He paused and took a deep breath held it for a second and then let it out. "I've been on the other side of man hunts. I know they'll be using every bit of tech they have to track us down. If they pick up on the police report from that mugging, if anybody passed on our description, however vague, it will be enough for some analyst to send out someone to run a check... I wanted to stay in one place so you could rest and we could come to terms with ah, you know... what's happened. But to stay in one place, we have to stop visiting the nearby town and _hide_."

"Yer right," she agreed sadly. "We should stay hidden away an' wait fer everyone ta give up on us. But thot's not me way, an' until tha other day, it wasnae yars either. I promise I won't chase down any more muggers and I'll try ta do things yar way."

She laid her hand on his thigh, rubbing the sore spot she'd just created.

"Tha pair of us cooped up in thot little house is gonna drive us both insane. As fer what's happened, it's a natural part o' life. I know whot tis like ta live on tha run. But, at tha moment, all me body wants is some decent food. I promise we'll pick up some groceries and hide out until we stink ta high heaven again. But would ya begrudge me one last hot meal, Michael?"

The ex-spy glanced at her, the woman he had given up everything for, the woman carrying his baby and he smiled softly before nodding his assent. One last trip to town and then they were done.

If only he had known then how right he would be.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **_Once again we thank everyone who takes the time to read and especially to write reviews. We really do appreciate your comments and your enthusiasm for the story and hope to continue to keep you on the edge of your seats. Belated birthday wishes to theSeventhBrat, DianeDusko732 & BNlove120 and deepest sympathy to BeenBurned2 for your loss. BurnerClub rewatch is still going strong on Thursdays. Join us at 9 EDT for re-watching and live tweeting. Next week will be S4E7._

_This is the second of two chapters of __Be Brave Little Angel__ posted this week. A special Labor Day edition of __Reconnecting__ 501 will post this Monday, the next installment of the __High Risk, High Reward__ series. Then next Thursday, __Life with Larry__ will return to its regular slot. Larry only has two more chapters of getting things his way before Michael gets the wake-up call of his lifetime._

**()()()()()()()()()()**

**BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL.**

**Chapter Nine**

Liam Glenanne stared broodingly at the front of the Excelsior Guest House, which overlooked the Suir River close to the center of Waterford. He sat on top of the waist high stone wall that had been built sometime in the previous century, partially in an effort to stop unfortunates from falling into the river, but also to hold back the waterway on the very few occasions the tides rose high enough to burst their banks.

From his vantage point, he not only had a good view of the front doors and the steps which led down to street level, but also of the length of the road in both directions. Pulling the collar of his long woolen overcoat up about his ears, the Irishman narrowed his pale blue eyes and tried to banish all thoughts of the cold, uncomfortable night he had endured on Seamus' powerboat and the dampness caused by fine drizzling rain that had been falling since they arrived in the southeastern town. A little discomfort was nothing compared to what he hoped to gain by talking to the two girls who were most likely sat eating a hearty Irish breakfast in the warmth of the four star rated guest-house.

_From his home in the wealthy Belfast suburb of Holywood, Liam had traveled south to his brother Sean's home in one of the quiet areas of Dublin. He had ordered his driver and personal bodyguard to do nothing at all to lose the two cars being driven by the MI5... or was it MI6?... operatives following in their wake._

"_I want tham basitds ta think thar smarter than us until tis time ta show 'em thar wrong."_

_He had already called Seamus to arrange for his sibling to have a fast boat waiting for them. So after a quick stop to pick up Sean, he made sure the two men were in place that he'd ordered to watch over Sean's family until they could be escorted to his mother's house in the morning._

_Then Davy Doyle had put on a show of street racing which could have got him a career as movie stuntman, leaving the two cars following them in the dust. As soon as they were in the clear and they had checked there was no helicopter monitoring their path, Mr. Doyle had driven straight to Seamus' private jetty._

_The journey on the powerboat had been rough as the family gunrunner had opened up the big twin engines and taken the boat out into the choppy waters of the Irish Sea. Sitting under the covered cabin, Liam had listened to Sean's long list of complaints about what the "Fiona situation" was doing to his love life in silence. The eldest brother had been secretly pleased he wasn't the only one dealing with a soft hearted woman, who in Rosie's case didn't understand the danger, or in Jeannie's case was blindly ignoring the consequences of risking Fiona being branded a traitor and a whore for sleeping with the enemy._

The doors of the guest house opened for the first time since the PIRA's premier interrogator had taken up his post. A couple in their forties with three children, ranging in ages from pre teen to mid teens, made their way over to a large estate car parked in one of the three spaces reserved for the guest house clientèle before driving off. A quick glance at his watch told him it was nearly nine o clock, which meant breakfast time was almost over

Getting to his feet, the sandy haired man began to focus all his thoughts on the upcoming interview. He had only had their statements to the police to draw on as he considered the best way to make an approach. Usually this wasn't a problem for the head of the clan. Generally when he was sent out by his bosses on the PIRA ruling council to find answers, the people he was chasing down were guilty of something and he had no crisis of conscience when he was questioning those who threatened the cause his family had been wrapped in for close to a century.

However, two foreign tourist still in their teens were a whole different matter. They would have no idea of his fearsome reputation. So relying on the mention of his name to bring forward the desired answers was out, as were any threats or actual intimidation.

Four more people came out through the doors, two couples if he had to guess all in their twenties dressed for a day hiking with waterproof coats sturdy boots and with ruck sacks on their backs. Liam twisted his head from side to side and shrugged his shoulders in an effort to release some of the stiffness caused by sitting in the cold and damp, the two girls would be coming out soon unless Colin had messed up and the Canadian teenagers had already moved on.

_Who allowed two children to travel half way round the world on their own? Were there adults supervising their holiday who had somehow remained off the radar?_ The Irishman scowled, this was another thing out of his comfort zone. When going into an interrogation under normal circumstances, he would have these answers already.

He let out a long sigh as finally he spotted his targets: two slender teenagers, one with unruly dark hair framing her face, the other with strands of blonde sticking out from under a white woollen hat.

Crossing the road, Liam timed his approach so he would intercept them as they reached the pavement.

_Interrogations were all about finding a persons vulnerability and exploiting it._ But there was no information and no time to gather the intelligence necessary to find their weaknesses and, as he could hardly kidnap the girls and take them back to the white tiled room with excellent sound proofing he kept for his PIRA work, all that was left was telling the truth.

_Or at least a version of the truth…_

"Excuse me, young misses." He made it just time to bring the two girls to a stop before they reached the side street which would take them up to the center of the town. "Would ya be tha two lasses who wa' mugged a coupla days ago?" Liam thickened his accent and did his best to soften his features, reminding himself he needed these young ladies to trust him.

The taller dark haired girl looked him up and down, her brown eyes taking in his dishevelled appearance before answering. "Are you a pol – what is it they call the police here? Ga-?"

"No, young miss, Am nae wit' tha Garda. Me name is Patrick and am lookin' fer somebody ya might have seen." Keeping up his act, he fumbled about, checking his pockets before coming up with a photograph showing his sister and McBride sitting at a table side by side with smiles for the camera.

"This is me sister. She's run away wit' this fella har... It's all a big misunderstanding, ya see. Har family jus' want her back safe an' sound."

The younger blonde dropped back a pace after glancing at the photograph, her downcast eyes and the way she chewed on her lower lip gave Liam all the encouragement he needed. Now he was sure the two girls knew something. He widened his smile and pressed on with the tale he was spinning.

"They've somehow got it in ta thar heads thot thar in trouble an' tis nae so. Wa're all so concerned thot she... well, tha truth is me sister barely knows tha lad. He turned har head, so he has, an' we jus' want ta talk ta tham befer they go and do sommit foolish, ya see?"

Kara, the blonde who Liam had rightly spotted was uncomfortable with his questions, bit down on a gasp as her best friend took the photograph from the stranger's hand and, after studying for a few seconds, looked up into the Irishman's piercing pale colored eyes.

"Oh yeah, they were both there." The blonde touched her friend's arm as a silent reminder to the promise they had made to couple who had brought down the two thieves. "To be honest with you, they were the ones who saved the day, totally kickass," Taryn added as she handed the picture back.

"So, they war thar an ya spoke ta them?"

"Oh yes...wow, and you must be one of the brothers Barbara mentioned."

"Thot's right, Miss." He hid his smile. He now had a name. "Did Barbara happen ta say whar they war stayin' and whar' they war going."

Kara gave her friend a not-so-gentle shove of her shoe to her friend's foot.

"No," the blonde declared, giving up on subtle warnings. "No, they didn't say much at all."

"Oh yes they did," Taryn replied eagerly. "Don't tell me you've forgotten about it already? I mean, catching those muggers was the most excitement we've had so far." Turning back to the older man, she beamed up at him. "This is our first vacation alone... We're meeting up with our parents in Dublin in two days before flying back home."

"Taryn..." Kara mumbled softly. She couldn't believe how her friend was just betraying the confidence of the two people who had saved them from being left penniless and without their passports. She stopped listening as her best friend started to give the Irishman the details of their European vacation and how, as a reward for their good grades and their good behavior, their parents had agreed to them having a week alone to explore the southern coast of Ireland.

"Thot sounds like a fine time ya've been having, but I wa' wondering about me sister. D'ya have any idea whar' I might find har?"

Kara blinked and her blood ran cold. Sitting in a large beige colored SUV, barely feet away from where they stood, were the very couple under discussion. The traffic lights began to change color from red to green. All she could think about was she had to make sure the Irishman didn't turn around and spot the car and the people inside.

"It all happened so fast. I mean, with the muggers and everything. Taryn, do you really think-"

As the young Canadians had intended, Liam's focus was now solely on the pair in front of him.

"Just a second, Kara... Oh yes, I remember now. Barbara's boyfriend said something about they were going to check out the harbor. They talked about paying someone to take them to America."

The dark haired girl raised a arm and pointed along the road behind her towards where it was possible to see the tops of several tall masts above the walls.

"They said they wa' goin' ta try fer America?" he echoed, unsure about the information.

"Yes, I'm sure that's what he said, isn't it, Kara."

"Yes... America."

"Well, thank ya kindly. I'll go a take a look along thar. Maybe I'll be in luck an' they won't have found anyone foolhardy enough ta risk such a journey."

"Glad to have helped, Mr-?"

"Patrick, young miss, jus' call me Patrick. Now I've held ya up long enough, an' I need ta get down ta the harbor."

"Bye, Patrick." Taryn smiled after the man.

"You lied to him," Kara hissed. She couldn't believe the nerve of her friend. "I thought -"

"Ha, it was more of a fabrication than an outright lie, we made a promise, remember, and what about you? Barbara was right there in the car in front of you and you didn't give them away, not even by a blink."

They carried on, walking up the street where the Beige Land Rover had turned minutes earlier, chatting excitedly about how five quiet days exploring a little piece of Ireland was turning into an adventure with an eloping couple and a scary looking older brother giving chase.

()()()()()()()

Mason Gilroy watched the exchange between Liam Glenanne and two unknown teenagers using a small discrete telescopic telescope from his position next to a large wooden hut, which when opened served as a fish and chip shop to the passing trade. Too far away to hear what was being said, he focused on the pair long enough to pass their description onto his support team supplied by the American officer he had been tasked to work alongside.

Having lost Samantha Keyes somewhere in the crowded Terminal Two of Heathrow Airport, it hadn't been until he boarded the Aer Lingus flight to Dublin that he realized the tall, slender, curly haired brunette was not the same one he had been tracking since she'd been lead out of the main doors of the US embassy by Tom Card. It had taken a rather brutal and speedy field interrogation of the young lady paid to masquerade as Ms. Keyes and her male companion to restore his good humor.

The professional killer's eye was drawn to the blonde girl's body language and he altered his field of vision to take a look at what had suddenly caused her to lose eye contact with Mr. Glenanne.

"Oh my…" He smirked, touching his ear piece to pass on this exceptionally piece of good news. "There's a Beige Land Rover, the last four numbers on the plate are seven, four, four, three, turning off Merchant's Quay onto the street beside the Excelsior Guest House, get a tail on it now."

_This was just too delightful_…

Collapsing down the telescope, the assassin dropped it into his pocket and sauntered away. The tactical team Card had lent him from their base in the US embassy in Dublin would track the fugitives to wherever they were going and then he would get to pit his wits against Michael Westen.

All thoughts of the man he had tortured to death and the young woman he had shot in the head out in the wilds of Kilkenny were gone from his mind. _He had a family reunion to organize_.

()()()()()()()

"Just because Liam is here and he's talking ta tha girls we helped thot donnae mean they've said anything. I mean, whot do they know? They don't even have our names."

Fiona had been talking ever since they had followed the coastal road into Waterford and, at the second set of traffic lights, come across the sight of her oldest sibling talking to the only people in the town with which they'd had any sort of extended conversation. She had kept her eyes glued to Liam's back, while relaying that the young tourists they'd helped were in fact keeping her brother occupied and apparently misdirecting her family's pursuit of them.

His jaw clenched tightly, his eyes narrowed and with his knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel, Michael drove in stony silence. It was all the ex-spy could do to drive away within the legal speed limit, as their saviors had indeed prevented the head of the clan from turning around and spotting them when they'd rolled into town, and he hadn't wanted to tip anyone off with too hasty an exit. _Those girls shouldn't have had the opportunity to help them at all, _Michael fumed inside.

"They've sent the boys off on a wild goose chase ta tha harbor. Liam cannae afford not ta check whotever story they've told ham. We just have ta go back ta tha cottage and pack up our things. We can use the back roads and stay off tha main road. They wonnae expect thot."

As much as he wanted to put his foot down and just keep driving, he knew they needed a better plan than that. _Urban warfare was the Glenanne's specialty. They needed to head for the hills and drop totally off the grid, where not even the family hacker's computer skills could find them, and they would need their supplies for that. _Michael sucked in his lower lip and bit down on the soft flesh_. While she was going on about Liam, it was Colin who was the real threat._

"If we hadnae come ta town today, we'd ha' never known thot-"

Her voice trailed off as he glared at her from out of the corner of his eye before checking all the mirrors, refusing to face anywhere but towards the front windshield. He began to gather speed once they were out of town proper and heading down the road towards their former safe house.

As Michael drove, his mind was busy working on their exit strategy. They had supplies and the rest of their weapons at the cottage. With Liam so close, they would have to work fast, taking only what they needed and make a run for it. _But where to go?_

The ex-spy glanced out of the side window at the hills he could see in far distance: To the south, there was only ocean and, if Liam was in Waterford, there was a good chance that the other brothers were there too. So stealing a boat in broad daylight was out and the same reasoning applied to the east. There was less than a hundred miles in that direction before they would run into the Irish Sea. Either one of those choices put them solidly within Seamus's ample reach, which left going to the West, back the way they had come towards Limerick or north and those hills.

_He could hide out in that remote wilderness for weeks if necessary… if he was alone. Could Fiona do the same?_ He risked a quick look in her direction while she was staring out the rear glass at the moment. The former guerrilla was as tough as any man and willing to try anything. Under normal circumstances he would have had no fear of her ability to survive a few weeks roughing it in the hills and bog. But she _was_ pregnant and that, however much it made her mad, made a difference.

The drone of a powerful engine and the whirr of helicopter blades broke into his thoughts and, with his blood running cold, he tried to catch a glance of the aircraft. However, he was unable to spot it in the clouds. _That meant there were far more dangerous things than the Glennanes chasing them._

"It's not following us..." Fiona had craned her neck to watch the flight of the chopper, flashing tail lights flying high above them, as it overtook their position and continued on its way westward. "Thar's no reason ta believe tis after us. Thar's an airfield less than ten miles away fram har. Ya'll recall thot helicopters an' light aircraft have been flying over tha top o' us all hours o' tha day."

The former covert operative clenched his teeth. He'd thought about leaving when they'd discerned their proximity to the small private airport a few days into their stay in the abandoned home._ Another reason they shouldn't have left the safety of their sanctuary unless absolutely necessary._

He glanced sideways at her, still not trusting himself to talk yet. But it was clear she got his meaning as her mouth snapped shut and she drew her handgun, placing it on her lap.

"Fine, if it comes back around, shall I shoot it outta tha sky jus ta be sure?"

()()()()()()()

Mason Gilroy sat behind the wheel of a bullet proof black Range Rover fitted with tinted windows, roll bars and specialized compartments for holding various types of ordinance. As the British wet work specialist listened to the flight crew explaining that they had an eye on the target vehicle and, after doing a fly-by, they were going to go a higher altitude and keep watching using thermal imagining, he continued to re-read the dossier given to him by Tom Card.

Spreading out the photographs, he pursed his lips as he stared at the image of the couple he was hunting down. The girl was going to be no trouble at all in tight quarters. She was barely five foot three and couldn't weigh more than seven stone. Her particular skills lay in planting bombs and shooting from a distance. Like most paramilitaries he'd encounter, her reputation was no doubt exaggerated. Up close and personal, he was sure he would be easily able to overwhelm her.

_The man though was a completely different kettle of fish_, Gilroy thought, barring his teeth in a predatory smile. Michael Westen had a very impressive résumé, though not so colorful as his own career. An Army Ranger then onto the CIA without a break for any of the pleasures of civilian life. He'd worked in all the hotspots and done quite a lot of damage along the way. The Brit brought out another photograph, one taken when the spy was posing as a diplomat in St. Petersburg back in '94.

"Quite the sharp dresser when the occasion allows, eh, Westen?" Mason murmured.

"Target vehicle has come to a stop," a voice buzzed in his earpiece. "It appears to be a cottage or an old farm building. I'm sending you the coordinates now, sir."

Closing the folder, Gilroy turned the key and started up the engine on his US embassy loaner.

"Thank you, Commander. You can leave this to me now. Keep your distance, but be ready to provide back up if they run."

Before pulling away, the assassin opened the glove compartment in front of the passenger seat and took stock of the variety of small arms he had been provided with to complete the mission.

_Yes, today was going swimmingly._

()()()()()()()

As soon as Michael brought the SUV to a stop beside the little abandoned farmhouse, the fiery Irishwoman had flung open her door and climbed out. Without uttering a word, she walked towards the rotted wooden back door. Fiona had stopped trying to draw her lover into a discussion on their tactics for evading her family after it had become clear to her that he was deliberately ignoring her.

Instead she had joined him in stony silence, making the rest of journey even more uncomfortable than before. Waiting impatiently at the entrance, she turned to see what was taking Michael so long.

Biting back an angry retort about his lack of trust in her judgement while he remained driver's door of the large vehicle looking skyward, squinting up at the clouds obviously still searching for any sign of the helicopter which had buzzed by them earlier, even though she had told him it had continued on its way west. Only when he was sure the only sounds he could hear were birdsong did he join her at the door.

"Ready?" she asked while slowly twisting the door handle.

He nodded and pressed himself up against the wood. While she inched the door open, he reached inside through the narrow gap, his fingers finding a single thin strand of wire. As soon as he disengaged the wire from the hook, which would have enabled the shotgun aimed at the door to fire, they went inside.

As soon as Michael's feet cleared the threshold, he crossed the living room to snatch up one of the new canvas back packs they had bought on their first shopping expedition into Waterford before heading into the kitchen. Ms. Glenanne trailed after him, determined to clear the air before they moved on.

"Michael, I think -"

"Not now, Fi."

Those three words were the most he had spoken to her since they had spotted Liam in Waterford. In fact, it was the most he'd spoken to her in half an hour. But there was none of the love in his tone he had displayed earlier that morning as he began to throw the tinned food they'd bought into a bag.

When she didn't move, the ex-spy paused just long enough to look her in the eye. "What the hell are you waiting for, Fi? You _do_ realize the danger we're in? Your brothers are less than twenty miles away looking for us. How long do you think it will be before they decide to widen their search parameters to include abandoned buildings and remote farmhouses?"

His cold icy glare chilled the petite redhead to the bone. She had seen that same look on his face before, but never aimed at her. But that didn't stop her from closing the gap until there was only the rickety old table between them.

"Michael, ya jus' said it yarself. Me brothers are in Waterford. They could be there for a few hours or maybe a few days. Whot I do know is thar not har right now."

"_Is that what you think?"_ The words came out in a snarl as he forgot about packing the food and leaned across the table.

For a brief second Fiona felt real fear, as her lover gazed back at her with eyes filled with nothing but rage and darkness. Even so she held her ground and watched as he suddenly relaxed, dropping his chin and taking a couple of deep breaths. When he next locked eyes with her again, the former guerrilla could see he had taken back control.

"You need to go upstairs and start packing... We can talk later. I'm _serious,_ Fi."

"An' this seriously cannae wait, Michael." She fixed him with her own version of a death stare.

"Fine," he ground the word out from behind clenched teeth. "What's so important it can't wait?"

"Ya know whot tis. We've talked about it befer. We _have ta_ be able ta work together. Ya can't keep cutting me out and ignoring me when things start ta become tense."

"What do you want me say, Fi? When I tell you we have to stay out of sight and do nothing to attract attention _you_ blow our cover chasing after a couple of muggers. How's that for cutting me out of _your_ decisions?" he spat back at her. His fingers which had been splayed out on the table top now formed into tight fists.

"Yer still blaming me fer saving those two girls?" She felt her temper rise up, engulfing her in a red haze, taking the all the fragile remnants of her control not to round the table and punch his lights out.

"They didn't need saving, Fi. That's my whole point. So they would've lost some cash. You got us noticed, noticed enough that your brother Colin was able to find our location."

"D'ya har yarself, Michael Westen? D'ya har tha type o' man ya have become? Tha man I fell in love wit' wouldnae have stood in tha shadows while innocents got hurt."

He sighed heavily. "I'm doing this for you… for us, _for all of us_."

"You cannae be like thot, not if it changes ya from tha man ya are, from tha man I love."

The anger faded from his eyes as he stepped around the table so they were face to face. She looked up and watched his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed before his hand rose as, if reaching for her, before falling back to his side.

"I've got different priorities now, Fi... I can't save the whole world and keep you safe too. I told you this before. _You're_ my mission now, the two of you, _my only mission_. Can we _please_ talk about this later? We _really_ need to pack and get out of here. Your brothers might not be the only ones who know we're here."

()()()()()()()

The drive from Waterford to the abandoned cottage where his targets were hiding had taken the British hired killer less than twenty minutes as he had blithely ignored all the speed limits and rules of the road. In his not so distant youth Gilroy had done two tours in Northern Ireland at a time when being sent to Belfast was considered a baptism in fire, as well as several over the border incursions as part of his time with the SAS. He had no illusions about the way the Garda in the rural areas worked and knew that the chances were that the only law enforcement outside the towns was underfunded and for the most part non-existent except during the holiday season.

Slowing down as he neared the coordinates, the former MI6 agent came to a stop when he could see the top of the damaged roof and the remains of a half tumbled down chimney. Getting out of his CIA-provided transportation, Gilroy took his time stripping off his shirt to don his state of the art bullet proof vest. Once fully dressed again, he began to load up on the weapons: two handguns, several knives and lots of ready loaded clips of ammunition.

"Time to go to work," he intoned, closing the SUVs door and quickly scanned the perimeter, quickly spotting two members of the tactical team which Tom Card had insisted on sending with him. The Brit had ordered the other two to remain aloft in the helicopter. "This is my assignment, chaps, so you stay back until I call you in to sweep up the mess. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Sir," said the taller of the pair.

"Jolly good, now let's have some radio silence and try to remember the plan is to _allow_ the Glenannes inside the perimeter, shall we?"

Moving forward slowly, using every bit of cover available, Gilroy crept closer to the run down property. Finding a gap in the fence which separated what once had been an old fashioned country garden from the corn fields behind and to the side, the assassin crossed the open space without being seen. On his way across the weed and wild flower strewn grass and avoiding the large patches of stinging nettles and wild rose bushes, the contract killer noted several spots where the earth had been disturbed.

"If you have to come in, watch out for the IEDs... Ms. Glenanne is living up to her terrorist reputation," he murmured to the waiting support team.

Passing by the targets getaway vehicle he noted that there were already several bags on the back seat and more in the boot space. Gilroy drew one his knives and bent down to slice the tire but stopped himself just as the blade pressed lightly on the rubber.

He had already underestimated one of Michael Westen's women. He was not about to make the same mistake again. He had seen evidence of Ms. Glenanne's work in the booby traps hidden in the long grass. It was entirely possible that the guerrilla fighter had rigged the car to blow if it was interfered with in any way. He still had memories of his time in Ireland, having to check under his vehicle and the engine block each and every time before getting inside. The IRA had lots of talented explosives experts and Fiona Glenanne was considered one of the best.

Returning the knife to its sheath, Mason Gilroy moved on to the side of the house. Taking a quick look through one of the dirt encrusted windows, he caught a glimpse of a shape moving around in what would have once been a living room.

Changing position, he went to the door and smiled when he saw it was unlocked and partially opened. Carefully drawing his favorite SIG Sauer, the assassin slipped inside the cottage and pressed himself flat against the wall. He knew where his primary target was, but had no idea where the woman was or what she was doing.

Taking a couple of shallow breaths, Gilroy knew he had to act before he lost the element of surprise; however, he was equally not about to risk his life because he couldn't wait to have all the necessary information. Pausing there, he listened intently for any clues as to her whereabouts.

"Fi, aren't you done yet? Ten minutes are up."

"Stop nagging me, Michael. I'm working as quickly as I can."

_This was it… Westen was alone… Glenanne was on the upper floor…There was no time to lose._

The assassin came out of hiding in a rush, one arm snaking around his opponent's neck while the other wrapped about his head in a devastating choke hold.

Gilroy knew all about Michael Westen. He had read the dossier handed to him by Tom Card cover to cover five times. The Brit had even asked his remaining few friends in intelligence circles about the man he was trying to choke out. But nothing prepared him for the instantaneous reaction of the former spy, who threw himself backwards, kicked out with his feet and used his hands and nails to attack his assailant. As soon as Michael broke the stranger's hold, the two men were facing each other, both breathing heavily.

"Who are you?" Westen asked as he moved to put himself between the new threat to his life and the stairs which led to where the woman was on the second floor.

"Tom Card sends his regards, old boy." Gilroy spat a mouthful of blood onto the dust covered floor.

"_You're CIA?_" the ex-operative demanded, his disbelief plain to see.

"Not exactly…" The knife appeared in Gilroy's hand and he sent it spinning end over end straight at the rogue agent's chest. Smiling grimly when Westen did exactly what he expected and ducked to the side, the killer launched himself forward, delivering several lightning fast blows to the other man's head and torso. But his adversary responded to the punches with a roundhouse kick, which snapped Gilroy's head to the side.

"Fi! Run!" Michael followed up one kick with another, the second one failing to find its target as his attacker dropped to the floor and rolled clear. Kicking out with his legs, the Brit knocked his quarry to the floor.

"Michael?" A shot rang out as the Irishwoman came down the stairs.

"Fiona, get outta here!" The agent turned fugitive threw himself at his foe before the assassin could draw his firearm. _Westen didn't know that he had no intention of killing her just yet. _

"Michael, get outta tha way!" She fired a second time. But the fast moving hit man had his own weapon in his hand and fired back, the younger woman catching her heel on the steep, uneven steps as she tried to duck for cover and then landing hard with a gasp of pain.

"Fi!"

For a split second all of Michael's focus was solely on his fallen lover, who was about to get gunned down by the British wet work specialist, and that small piece of inattention was all that the experienced killer needed to strike down his target. As the American agent grabbed for his gun hand, Gilroy smashed his other fist into the ex-spy's jaw, stunning the man. An immediate follow-up blow to the head with his SIG dropped his prey to the floor.

The bullet from her Walther hit the wall behind her enemy's head, the heat from its passing singeing his neatly styled hair.

"Oh no, I don't think I would do that again if I were you," the smooth voice advised, as the recovered redhead aimed her automatic in his direction once more. Gilroy smiled up at the wide eyed woman from his position behind her boyfriend with his pistol pointed straight at former agent's temple.

"Now, you listen to me, be a good girl and drop your gun or _my_ next shot goes through dear Michael's skull." For several seconds they locked eyes, each looking for a sign of weakness. "I'm sure you're a crack shot, but are you willing to bet your lover's life that you can kill me before I kill him?"

If the little colleen didn't do as she was told, he was prepared to shoot her down right there and then.

"For what it's worth, I've been ordered to bring Michael in alive if at all possible. Now wouldn't being alive be a better prospect than him having his brains splattered all over the floor of this delightful residence?"

"Who do you work for?" She wasn't quite ready to give up; he could see it in those stormy eyes and in the way her finger was tightening on the trigger of her weapon.

"I suppose I'm what's known as a private contractor... Now, your time is up, surrender or no more Michael." His smile grew as the Walther was slowly lowered and then held out on the flat of her hand in submission.

"You win."

"I always do, my dear. That's why I'm so well paid. Now, put the gun on the floor and kick it away."

With the weapon now out of the reach of the young woman, Gilroy dug into his back pocket and pulled out several cable ties, tossing one in her direction. "Think of it as a new bracelet to add to your collection. Be a love and make sure you do it up tight or sleeping beauty here will be the one paying the price."

He watched her intently as she obeyed his orders, making a loop and then using her teeth to tighten the band around her wrists.

"I hate to tell you, my dear, the new look does nothing for you." A sneer formed on his lips as his eyes racked over her disheveled clothing. "It makes you look like a twelve year old boy."

The tiny terrorist was fuming. He could see it in the way her muscles trembled and the glint in her eyes. If he didn't need her alive, she'd be dead on the floor right now. But until he was ready to leave, she was his insurance policy against Westen doing anything stupid. _Besides there was some fun to be had making her to be the one to chose who lives or dies._

()()()()()()

Fiona had never felt so beaten and afraid as she did standing in front of the steps with the plastic of the tie wrap biting into the wrists, while the British bastard who had appeared out of nowhere roughly maneuvered the limp body of her lover so he could use another tie wrap to secure his prisoner's hands behind his back.

"What have ya done ta him?" She asked unable to hide her concern at livid bruising slowly coming out on Michael's forehead and jaw.

"Nothing he won't recover from, as long as _you_ continue to do as you're told."

"And whot d'ya intend ta do wit' me?" She tensed as the stranger rose back to his feet and walked towards her. She could see the predatory glint in his eyes and her stomach flipped as her fear levels went up another notch.

"Oh, not what you're thinking, my dear girl. Sorry, but you're not my type." He dragged her over to one of the wooden dining chairs and forced her down onto the seat. "I just need you to ring your brothers and invite them to join the party." He handed her a mobile phone and with his other hand pressed the barrel of his gun into her face.

"I will nae help ya slaughter me family." She attempted to turn her head, but the pressure from the still warm barrel kept her eyes facing front.

"It's your choice, of course, but you should spare a thought for poor Michael. He gave up a promising career for you."

The petite redhead closed her eyes as she attempted to come up with some way out of their present situation. _If Liam was in Waterford, there was no doubt in her mind he wouldn't have left the North alone._ Her eyes opened and she nodded her head, sadly in defeat.

"I'll do it. But ya'll have ta dial as I'm tied up at tha moment."

_If this English psychopath wanted to meet her brothers, who was she to interfere?_

_()()()()()()()()()()()_

___The next chapter of our story will be posted next Monday, September 8th. This Monday, a special holiday edition of Reconnecting will be posted for Labor Day! Burn on!__  
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	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **_So here is the chapter you've all been waiting one and another extra long one to make up for the wait. Once again, we thank everyone for their enthusiasm and their support, especially all your kind reviews for this and our other offerings, __Reconnecting__ and __Life with Larry__. Thank you, Burners!_

_The next chapter of __Reconnecting__ with be a Halloween Edition of AU 401, __When Irish Eyes are Smiling__ and the next chapter of Life with Larry (Pakistan 1994) will not post until Saturday. Sorry, but real life is still just a little too real for us, but we appreciate your patience and your interest!_

_The next chapter of this intrepid tale will post next Monday (we hope!) and now on with our story…._

**()()()()()()()()**

**BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL**

**Chapter Ten**

When "_Patrick_" had taken his leave of the pair of young Canadian tourists, he had spared a moment's thought for the other two Patricks who had been instrumental in shaping his life and what they would have said about what he was trying to deal with right now.

His older sibling, Pat Junior as he was known, who had been murdered years ago when a team of paratroopers had come a calling, would have exploded in a rage greater than his youngest brother Sean's meltdown at finding his sister's boyfriend was a Yank spy working for the British.

His father, Patrick Glenanne Senior, might have been a true believer in the Cause, but Liam had to wonder how the man would have dealt with his little girl's desires to run away with an American interloper. It had seemed to the present head of the family that their father had at times even put the sacred cause of a free and united Ireland ahead of his family's needs, leaving their mother to tend to hearth, home and all manner of family emergencies while he fought a bitter guerrilla war against the British overlords.

But Fiona had always been a daddy's girl and the apple of her father's eye, spending hours with the family patriarch listening to all his stories and learning the skills of the master bomb-maker, while Claire with her heart of gold had been their mam's baby.

The thought of his dearly departed baby sister, murdered by a British soldier during a riot in the center of Belfast, made him even more determined to find his youngest living sibling before she could finish destroying her own life and possibly bringing about the destruction of the whole clan.

"_Are ya sure yer nae just pissed off wit' McBride cuz he pulled tha wool o'er yar eyes as well as tha rest o' us?" _The Irishman ground his teeth together as his lover's words came back to haunt him. He wasn't used to the blonde woman who shared his bed if not his name questioning his motives.

_He had never truly trusted Michael McBride, yet he had done nothing to hinder the relationship because it had been such a long time since he'd seen his sister so happy... And he did want Fiona to be happy. But right now he'd be satisfied with her alive and free of the threat of a PIRA death squad hunting her to the ends of the earth._

Nearing the harbor filled with tiny pleasure boats, yachts and several medium-sized fishing boats, Liam turned his attention to locating his brothers who should be somewhere in the locale asking questions of the various fishermen and boat owners who spent their days working or hanging out along the quayside.

With no sign of either Seamus or Sean, the oldest of the Glenanne siblings preceded to walk along the wharf wondering what had caused his brothers to fail in their task. Hearing a familiar laugh followed by another voice complaining about the luck of newcomers coming from the raised deck of a pleasure boat, Liam came to a stop.

"Shay?" he called out, staring up at where the voices had come from.

"Liam, I wa' beginning ta think ya had forgotten all about us." Seamus Glenanne leaned out over the side of the boat with a wide grin creasing his tanned features. "Ar' ya comin' up ta join us?"

"No, I need ya down har," he called back, doing his best to hide his irritation at Seamus' casual approach to the search for their sister.

When he had ordered his brothers to keep a low profile, he hadn't expected to find his younger sibling sitting down with a group of fishermen, smoking cigarettes and playing cards.

"I'll see later, lads... An' remember if ya need any help out thar protectin' whot's yars, let me know," Seamus shouted back to his new friends and possible new business associates once he had disembarked from the boat.

"I thought I told ya ta ask questions, not tek tha coillte fer every penny they own." Liam scowled at the younger man, but then couldn't help but ask. "How much d'ya make?"

"A hundred an' fifty punts, thank ye very much." The family gunrunner and part time gambler grinned. "Oh an' as fer askin' about Fi, we all have our own way o' doin' things. Me own way is jus' more pleasurable fer all concerned..."

He paused to light up a cigarette, cupping his hands about the matchstick to keep it dry as the soft weather seemed to have set in for the morning, before continuing to update his older brother.

"Me new friends told me thot tha young colleens wa' attacked o'er by tha coach park right opposite thot café." Seamus pointed across the road to the row of small shops and the café with the name _Sally O'Brady's_ emblazoned across the plate glass window. "So, thot's whar I sent Sean ta ask a few questions o' tha staff, as am pretty sure Fi must ta been inside thar when all tha ruckus started, cuz fram whot I wa' told it wa' a woman who came outta no whar an' chased down tha muggers."

Liam nodded thoughtfully, hiding his admiration for his brother's knack for getting people to open up to him. "He's on his way back now. Let's wait ta hear whot he has ta say."

The youngest Glenanne male sibling ran across the road, his hands buried deep in his bomber jacket pockets and his black woolen hat pulled low down on his forehead and covering his ears. "Fi an' M – Westen wa' in thar same day as tha mugging. Westen has his hair cut real short an' Fi hadda hat on, but tha girl inside said she thought she had short hair too, as none o' it wa' showing. She also said she dinnae hear 'em talkin' much. But she thought she heard 'em say sommit about cookin' off a camping stove. She remembered cuz she thought it wa' funny cuz they dinnae look like they war tha sort ta be camping."

"So, thar living rough..." Liam barred his teeth in a smile as his mind turned over the possibilities. "Sean, get onta Colin. I want a list o' all tha empty buildings, houses, barns, warehouses anywhere somebody might be livin' rough. If thar usin' campin' gear, then they have nae broken inta anywhar with tha power still connected." He paused as Sean turned away, his phone already in his hand and pressing the keys to contact the family intelligence officer.

Satisfied that the younger man was doing his job, Liam turned his attention back to his other brother.

"Shay, I want ya ta head along tha coast in thot boat o' yars. Check out tha docks around Wexford and Rosslare, tha two lasses I talked ta wa're spinning me a yarn, but I think tha may have been a little truth in thar tale. They might be tryin' ta jump onta a ferry, though I think MI6 will have all tha official ways outta Ireland cut off, an then go an' spread tha fear o' God in ta any who might think o' helping 'em cross over ta France. Remind 'em we donnae take kindly ta people interfering in our family business."

"Ya think tis wise ta split up, brother?" Seamus tossed the remains of his cigarette into the water lapping against the quayside.

"I donnae like it, but this way we cover more ground an' one o' us has ta keep an eye on Sean thar. I promised our mam I'd try ta bring 'em back ta har in one piece. She wants ta talk ta 'em both."

"So wa're _not_ killin' Westen?" His eyes widened at this bit of news.

"I promised I wouldnae _kill_ ham," Liam reluctantly admitted. "But I know fer a fact ya can do a lotta damage ta a body wit' out endin' a life. Ma can talk ta him all she likes, but it changes nothin' in tha end. Only difference will be thot we'll be puttin' him outta his misery later rather than sooner."

"Whot does Ma want wit' him?"

"I dunno, Shay." The man shrugged his shoulders. "She's worried about Fiona, same thing as Jeannie has been bending me ear about night an' day. None o' tham are thinkin' o' tha bigger picture."

"Ya sold tha story wit' tha body o' thot O'Dowd fella an' Pat Mulholland, did ya nae? I mean they musta believed ya. They put a bullet inta tha back o' Mulholland's head. So, whot's tha problem? McBride is in tha clear an' only _we_ know any different. If Ma says -"

"Tis not our mam's decision, tis mine alone." The head of the family laid down the law, his mouth forming a thin line as his pale eyes bored into his younger sibling's darker blue orbs.

Sensing he was drifting into dangerous waters, Seamus took a step back and lit up another cigarette, using the time to let the threatening storm pass overhead. "So, whot d'ya want me ta do if I find 'em, now thot wa're nae killing Michael on sight?"

"Ya ring us an' wait fer us ta get thar. We'll be no more than an hour an' a half away fram ya." He glanced over to where Sean was finishing his call to their brother Colin. "Ya best get goin' an' call us if ya have any news. Otherwise we'll meet back har tonight."

"Aye," Seamus nodded his agreement and waved to his younger sibling. "Take care, tha pair o' ya, cuz Fi is gonna be spittin' bricks if she catches sight o' ya."

Having sent one brother on his way, Liam waited for the other one to join him. Once they had a list of empty properties to check out, the head of the Glenanne clan was sure they would find their runaway sister and her American spy.

()()()()()()()

"_Whot have ya done ta him?"_

Her voice came to him soft and echoing, as if he was far away in a dark tunnel. She sounded frightened and that was all the incentive he needed to push towards the light.

Conditioned from a lifetime of taking beatings, first from his old man, then later as a teenager involved in street battles and single combat against opponents usually older than himself, followed by the harsh rigors of life as an army ranger and as a CIA field operative as an adult, Michael Westen's body and mind threw off the effects of his fight with the British stranger far faster than the other man suspected.

"_Nothing he won't recover from… as long as you continue to do as you're told."_

The former covert operative had first become aware when he had been rolled onto his stomach and his arms pulled behind his back. He had resisted the urge to fight back, all those years of training and experience in combat and covert activities reminding him that he stood a better chance of taking on his highly skilled opponent once his head had cleared and his muscles regained their strength.

"_And whot d'ya intend ta do wit' me?"_

Even with his eyes closed and his mind still trying to catch up with what had happened, Michael could sense the man had left his side. The soft telltale noise of his boots moving over the dirt and dust covered floor followed by the breathy gasp coming from near the stairs.

"_Oh, not what you're thinking, my dear girl... Sorry, but you're not my type." _

As the stranger walked Fiona past his prone body, the ex-spy risked opening his eyes just enough to witness the petite redhead who meant the world to him being pushed down onto a chair before being handed a mobile phone.

"_I just need you to ring your brothers and invite them to join the party."_

He nearly gave the game away when a pistol muzzle was pushed against the side of Fiona's head.

"_I will nae help ya slaughter me family."_ Michael bit down on his lower lip as his lover attempted to turn her head but the pressure from the end of the weapon kept her facing forward.

"_It's your choice of course, but you should spare a thought for poor Michael. He gave up a promising career for you."_

At the mention of his name, the former agent allowed his eyes to slide shut and did his best to keep his breathing slow and regular. Now was not the right time to attempt to fight back. Until he could figure out a way out of their predicament, all he could was pray his lover would have the presence of mind to do the right thing.

"_I'll do it. Ya'll have ta dial. I'm tied up at tha moment."_

The man who had claimed he'd been sent by the CIA had said Fiona's _brothers_. So it seemed he had been right, Liam wasn't alone. Michael swallowed and opened his eyes a slit. The gun was no longer pointed at Fiona's head. Instead the soft spoken limey bastard was holding his phone up to her ear, all the man's focus on trying to detect any subterfuge in her conversation with her kin.

"_Now, be a good girl, keep things nice and simple no code words or hidden signals unless you __want__ things to get messy."_

**()()()()()()()**

With Seamus off to check out the nearest major port and the numerous small harbours between there and Waterford, Liam and Sean took the list drawn up by their brother Colin and began to investigate all the abandoned and derelict buildings in the town before making their way outwards.

The two men had just reached the third address on their list, a building site containing the shells of what would one day be five detached four-bedroom homes.

"This is gonna take a month o' Sundays," Sean complained as they carefully cleared the first house before moving onto the second. "Thar's o'er sixteen o' these little building sites scattered all around tha town an' thot donnae include all tha empty factories an' warehouses."

"An' ya have a better way o' findin' tham?" Liam growled back. "Cuz if ya do, I'd love ta -" The older Glenanne brother reached for his cell phone as soon as it started ringing. "Am here," he answered the unknown number.

"_Liam, it's me."_ At the sound of their sister's voice, the premier PIRA interrogator put the call on to loudspeaker. _"I need ya ta come an' get me."_ They could hear her deep breaths through the phone. _"Am in a rundown farmhouse on tha Reisk Road, ya... Ya cannae miss it."_

As the two men turned and rushed back to the car which Sean had removed from the staff car park of the local Supa-Valu store, Liam answered their sibling's call for help.

"Wa're coming, sweetheart. Have ya hadda change o' heart, has he hurt ya?"

"Mike is here, he's wit me... We've realized wa're making a terrible mistake an I jus' want ta go back home."

"Okay, sweetheart wa're mabbe half an hour away. Donnae go anywhar."

The call ended abruptly, just as they reached their stolen ride. Thrusting his phone into his coat pocket, the older man stood aside while Sean opened the trunk.

"She called ham _Mike_. She _never_ called ham thot. It wa' always Michael or McBride." The younger brother pulled out an AR15 handing it over to his sibling. "An' d'ya catch tha way she wa' breathing?"

"Aye, two long breaths, two short ones and then one long, four short…"

"MI6. She's being held by tha fecking Brits." The family enforcer added two fragmentation grenades to his personal arsenal. "If Westen has handed har over ta tha Brit-"

"He has nae -"

"An' ya willin' ta stake our sister's life on thot?"

"Aye, I am." Liam surprised even himself as he defended a man he could have quite cheerfully turned into corpse. "If he'd wanted ta turn har ov'er ta tha Brits, he coulda done it at any time, thar runnin' off together." He gave his younger sibling a look of disgust. "Jayzuz, Sean, thot bit between yar ears, why not try usin' it sometimes? Ya didnae think we wae tha only ones chasin' 'em down?... Get in tha car, ya idjit!"

**()()()()()()()**

Michael knew he couldn't play dead forever. With his eyes closed and his breathing kept slow and regular, the American operative listened and waited for the right moment to announce his return to consciousness. Fiona was close by, the phone being held to her ear by the British assassin.

As she followed his command to lead her brothers into the waiting trap, she'd chosen her words carefully though and he prayed his lover's deception hadn't been noted by their captor. Using the shortened version of his name had been a good tactic. It was something that Liam or most definitely Sean would pick up on. A tiny clue that all was not well, the brothers would still come to her aid.

But at least they wouldn't be walking blindly into the ambush being set.

"_Okay, sweetheart, wa're mabbe half an hour away. Don't go anywhar._"

Their captor dropped his phone into his pants pocket as soon as the call ended. "See, that wasn't hard, was it? And now my dear I need you to stay quiet while I prepare for our guests."

From his position on the floor, the ex-spy could only watch as the cable tie about Fiona's wrists was cut and new ones were applied, securing each wrist to the arms of the chair and a hanker-chief he sincerely hoped was clean was pushed into her mouth and held in place by a blue and red striped tie.

_It was time to wake up and try to get some answers before the Glenanne boys arrived and all hell broke loose._

With a long moan of pain, the disavowed agent rolled awkwardly over onto his back, his eyes blinking as if he was just coming around from the blow to his forehead.

_When you're a spy, you learn to live with the idea of people wanting you dead. It could be an old enemy, a dissatisfied former employer, a disgruntled asset… Work long enough and the line gets pretty long, Kid. _The voice of his deceased former partner was the last thing he needed to hear right now, but Larry did have a point._ At the moment, he had a disgruntled asset in Sean Glenanne and, if his captor was to be believed, he had two former employers dissatisfied enough to bring in a wet work specialist to clean up the mess he'd created._

"Michael," the stranger spoke warmly as he came over and helped him to sit up by dragging him a short distance across the floor so he could brace his back against a wall. "So good of you to join us… I wondered how long you were going to play possum... That's the correct terminology, isn't it?"

"Yeah, that's right... What did you say your name was?" Making as little movement as possible, the former covert operative inched his fingers towards his belt and the small craft knife which was held in a hidden sheath along the underside of the thin piece of leather.

"I didn't, old boy... But, as you were busy getting your hands dirty in Eastern Europe when I was making a name for myself, I'll give you a little clue and see if you can work it out for yourself... Algeria, '93… the unexplained deaths of three Iranian diplomats?"

Michael vaguely remembered talk of the incident but drew a blank when he tried to recall any of the details. However, he did need to buy some more time as he'd managed to get the small knife into his hand and was now beginning the tricky task of maneuvering the blade so he could cut through the thick plastic tie holding him prisoner. He shook head and prepared to keep the other man talking.

"Sorry, '93 was a kinda busy year for me, you understand."

"Really, Michael, I'm disappointed... I _know_ all about _you._ Company man gone bad, your previous employer gave me a rather nifty dossier and I have to say, after reading all about your exploits, _I_ find _you_ quite fascinating."

Michael swallowed and then barred his teeth in a dazzling smile. _Was this guy flirting with him?_ "I bet you say that to all the girls."

"Only the ones I like," the assassin replied in a silky tone.

"I'm flattered."

He just needed a few seconds longer and while he found the way the British wet work specialist was staring into his eyes a little disconcerting, it did mean the man wasn't paying attention to any tell-tale movements his arms were making as he continued to slice through the tie wrap.

"You should be, most people bore me, _especially_ Americans. You always have a structure to report to, some memo to file, everything in its proper box. All your talk of rugged individualism, in my experience you're just a nation of sheep."

"I guess _you've_ been talking to Tom Card."

"Well done, Michael." The killer smirked, but then straightened up, his eyes going to the black face of his _Glycine Combat Sub_ wrist watch. "We'll have to continue this conversation a little later. I have guests I have to prepare for."

A complete contrast to his earlier relaxed manner, he began to move about the living room in a determined manner arranging the few pieces of furniture to suit his plan for an ambush.

"Ms. Glenanne, I should be getting word any moment to say your broth-"

As soon as Michael felt the plastic fall from his wrists, he launched himself straight at their captor, ready to fight for not only his own life but that of his girlfriend and their unborn child.

**()()()()()()()**

Liam wiped the blade of his knife against his trouser leg and grinned across to where his sibling had just choked out the second of the two men they had spotted hiding in the bushes close to a brand new shiny Range Rover with blacked out windows which screamed out _special ops_.

"Ya take tha back door in five minutes," he hissed and then, as Sean turned away, he called his impetuous younger brother back. "Sean, remember this only works if we go in at tha same time, no feckin' about. Five minutes an' then we go in hard. Ya take down anyone who gets in yar way, but nae Mc- Westen. D'ya hear me, babby brother?"

Sean blinked his blue-green eyes. "Ya want Westen alive, I get it... But jus' fer now, right?"

"Aye, _jus'_ fer now."

Watching the younger man duck down and disappear into the high growing weeds which filled what once would have been a large back garden, Liam sheathed his wickedly sharp hunting knife and unclipped the strap which had allowed him to carry his AR15 rifle across his back. Flicking the safety off, the Irishman began to cautiously make his way to the front door of the run down farmhouse.

_He had lied when he told his sister it would take them half an hour to reach her position. With Sean behind the wheel, it had taken them less than twenty minutes. Finding the two sentries hadn't been that difficult either, as both men were skilled at moving silently. Their opponents had obviously underestimated the abilities of two paramilitaries, who were more used to an urban environment rather than sneaking down the side of a field and over a rickety fence._

_While Sean had held onto his victim, he had pressed his knife to the throat of the other not-so-lucky guard and within seconds had dug the whole plan out of the CIA's tactical officer. There was only one man inside, a specialist called Gilroy, brought in from London to run the op and a short distance away a helicopter carrying a support team ready to come when called._

Fiona had warned them about MI6, yet the guards they had discovered were Americans, based out of the US embassy in Dublin, which all supported to his mother's theory that Westen had gone rogue on both his masters. Liam scowled. _It changed nothing..._ He knew exactly how dogged the PIRA death squads could be. After all, at one time, he had run one of the most successful cells, hunting down informers and traitors for a large reward.

He wiped a hand over his mouth_. I bloody well warned har...She knew tha rules an' tha consequences o' treason. Once in, never out... __She might as well have __loaded, cocked an' aimed tha executioner's gun at her own head…_

Reaching the side of the house, Liam stopped to take a quick look at his watch. He still had two minutes to get into position. That was plenty of time, as all he had to do was get past a window and he'd be where he needed to be. Taking the safety off his rifle, he changed his hold on the weapon and crept along the front wall.

_It had been years since he had been involved in any sort of breech and capture. For the last decade, he'd had a trusted team made up of distant relatives and old friends who did this part of the job. He found their target, planned the take-down and then dealt with the messy job of getting answers before handing all he had found out on to the executive council to pass judgement._

Two shots rang out from inside the cottage and it took all of Liam's self-discipline not to break down the flimsy looking door. Sucking in a deep breath and forcing down the thought of his sister lying wounded or dead inside, the Irishman continued to glide forward, telling himself they had a plan to follow.

Then came the sound of splintering wood and another shot from inside and his carefully thought out strategy to free their youngest sibling went to hell.

**()()()()()()()**

As the two men traded blows, kicks and holds in an effort to gain the upper hand. Fiona rocked in the chair which held her prisoner until it toppled over, crashing to the floor and sending a shock wave of pain through the side of her head and shoulder.

Ignoring her own discomfort, the petite paramilitary thrashed about, determined to break free from the chair, twisting, kicking and jerking her arms until the old brittle wood splintered and broke apart.

As soon as she was free, Fiona got to her feet and tore away the gag as she searched for some way of aiding her lover, who was grappling with the assassin over the gun the now bloody and battered Brit had drawn in a last ditch attempt to end the fight before the arrival of her brothers.

"Michael!" she called out. Stooping to pick up one of the broken chair legs, she strode swiftly towards the two men. Holding the makeshift weapon aloft, Fiona watched for the chance to enter the affray, knowing that now a gun was coming into play she had to concentrate on staying out of the line of fire yet still be ready to attack.

The loud retort from the weapon made the redhead's heart leap inside her chest. Another shot had her blood running cold as the two men stepped apart. Michael's hands were covered in red as the thick life giving liquid stained his shirt and dripped down his pant legs. Acting purely on instinct, she swung the broken chair leg as hard as she could at the back of the assassin's head, knocking him out cold as the other man collapsed.

"Michael, you're hurt."

Ignoring the hired killer laying in a crumpled heap in front of her, Fiona rushed to her lover's side. Reaching out, she attempted to examine his injuries. But he brushed her hands away.

"It's nothing… The blood is from _my_ wrists. _I_ cut them getting free..." He looked around, swallowing thickly when he noticed the two neat bullet holes buried into the wall at his chest height. "We need to get outta here. C'mon…" He took hold of her arm and dragged her towards the stairs. "We can't risk going out any of the doors. C'mon, Fi… _now!_"

They had barely made it half way up to the second floor when the sound of shattering wood was followed by an angry male voice. "WESTEN! Face me like a man, ya feckin -"

Sean Glenanne's diatribe was cut off by a hand grabbing his ankle and then before he could react, the bloody and bruised figure lying on the floor fired up at him, sending the irate Irishman spinning back against the wall, his right arm hanging uselessly at his side, the sleeve of his bomber jacket already turning crimson.

Upon hearing her brother's voice, Fiona had jerked her arm out of her lover's grasp and ran down the stairs, the sound of the shot adding even more speed to her descent.

"Fi! Fiona, dammit!" Michael shoved the petite woman aside in an effort to stop her from running straight into what he suspected was a beginning of a fire fight and made it to the bottom of the staircase in time to witness the British assassin rise up with a smoking gun in his hand, pointed at the slumped figure of Fiona's youngest brother.

As much as the former spy didn't want to kill anybody in the employ of the CIA, he saw no other choice. _Sean might hate him, but they had been friends in the past and he still held out a small hope they would be friends in the future_. He shot the hired killer twice in the back before spinning to cover the front door, which had just been broken down by the head of the Glenanne family armed with a semi-automatic rifle.

"NO!" Fiona screamed as the man she loved opened fire upon her oldest brother.

Michael blocked out the cry of his lover and ignored the drum of her tiny but powerful fists hitting his back as he squeezed the trigger on his handgun. His first two shots hit the AR15, tearing the weapon out of Liam's hands, and then a third and fourth shot caused the older man to throw himself flat onto the floor.

"Stay down, Liam. I don't want to kill you."

"Ya shot Sean, ya bastid! Am gonna-"

"He dinnae!" Fiona interrupted her brother. "He saved him, ask Sean yarself."

"Fi, Fiona, go get the last of our bags and get the car started. We're going." The former cover operative spoke in a cold flat tone. He was falling back on all his training and expertise to get them out of the deadly situation they now found themselves in. The whole time he was speaking, he never took his attention off the older man lying on the floor just inside the front door.

"We're going now, Liam. Believe me when I say you _do not_ want to try and follow us. Your brother has a bullet wound to the top of his arm. He should be your first priority. But don't take too long. Do you hear that?" He gestured with a look upwards. "My guess is that's a full tactical team coming in to try to pick us up. You _are not_ going to want to be around when that happens."

Fiona passed behind him. Having retrieved the last of their bags from the second story, she hurried out the back door her fallen brother had burst through minutes earlier, leaving the cottage without further comment.. Seconds later, the sound of the Discovery could be heard and Michael slowly backed away from the prone man who would one day soon be his brother-in-law.

()()()()()()

Reaching the car, Michael opened the driver's side door and stared into the turbulent blue-green eyes of his lover. "Move over, Fi. I'll drive."

She shook her head. "You have cuts ta yar wrists thot need seeing ta an' I doubt ya could hold tha steering wheel fer long, not wit' tha sort o' drivin' we've got ahead o' us." To make her point, she revved the engine and slipped the large vehicle into gear.

For a split second, he thought about arguing with her; however, there was no time and she did have a point. Overhead the helicopter was beginning to descend and it was possible to see a figure leaning out of one of the doors holding a rifle.

With an annoyed huff, the former spy slammed the door shut and quickly made his way around to the passenger side. As soon as he was inside, the Discovery shot backwards and then the redhead spun the steering wheel hard to the left before setting off forwards in full four wheel drive.

"Fi, Fiona where the hell are -" His words were cut off as the large SUV ploughed through the waist high wild flowers and weeds covering back garden. "Fi, watch out for the-"

His words were cut off by the roar of the helicopter's engine and rotor blades, as the Kiowa military aircraft flew low enough to buzz the tree tops, and that was when Fiona took one hand off the steering wheel long enough to press down on the trigger switch she had positioned on her lap to detonate the roadside bombs they had planted the previous day.

The walls which lined the narrow country lane disintegrated, sending large stones flying into the air, hitting the under carriage of the helicopter, causing it to tip and rock. As the Discovery crashed through the rickety wooden fence at the end of the garden and into the fields beyond, the helicopter engine sputtered and stalled, sending the chopper crashing to the ground and exploding into a massive fireball. She had expected it would take down their pursuers, not disintegrate them.

"Whot tha -?" Fiona twisted around to take a look at the devastation she had wrought until she was forced to turn back to concentrate on guiding the heavy vehicle over the rough ground.

"It would have been loaded down the weapons, ammunition," Michael muttered. "You couldn't have known that."

"I didnae-," the young Irishwoman swallowed thickly, her pallid complexion turning green as her foot slipped from the accelerator pedal. "Me brothers! I -"

"Your brothers were still inside the cottage. They're fine, Fi, but we won't be if you don't get going."

"But -"

"But nothing," he replied harshly. "They were here to kill us or throw us into some deep dark hole. Now drive, we need to get outta here."

When she tried to take another look at the growing flames, which were now roaring towards the farmhouse, the ex-spy reached over with his foot and stamped on the gas, causing the Discovery to fly forwards, forcing her to focus on the rolling pasture ahead of them.

"We have to get away from here as quickly as possible, that explosion, the fire, it's gonna bring the Gardai and every spy and hired killer hunting us straight at us."

"Thar's no need ta shout at me!" She glanced over at him, determination shining through the tears which filled her eyes and stained her cheeks.

"Just get us back onto a road going north for now... Not a main road."

"North?" She was no longer looking at him. She aimed the car at a five bar wooden gate at the edge of the field which would put them back onto the road.

"For now, we need to hide out. What about those mountains?" he asked. The former agent reached across his body to grab the seatbelt and clip it into place before they smashed through the gate. The large SUV then fishtailed up the narrow road, almost crashing into the fence on the opposite side of the thin piece of tarmac.

"Ya want ta go ta tha mountains? I thought ya meant we'd try fer tha far North."

"No, every time we go into a town, we risk Colin being able to track us down. From now on, we're doing things _my way_... We need to drop off the grid, at least for a while. We'll have to live on whatever we can carry or kill."

Michael's memory momentarily served up a series of images from his time as a Ranger and later as a spy of having to travel fast through hostile territories and sometimes living off the land when food supplies ran out... He shook his head for a moment, trying to clear away all the recollections of so many servings rabbit stew he'd had to endure in Serbia. Just the thought of Lapin, even when served in the finest restaurants, turned his usually cast iron stomach. However, he would do what he had to.

"Michael I'm not sure -"

"Do you remember what we did in Slieveanorra?" he asked abruptly, refusing to let her voice her doubts about his strategy. _This time she wasn't going to talk him out of doing what was necessary_.

"Slieveanorra? Michael, I donnae think now is tha time..." Her confused expression and blushing cheeks told him immediately that she was thinking about the sexual antics that had followed their flight from the RUC and the British army when he had led her away to hide in the Slieveanorra forest following a botched robbery of an armored payroll truck.

"What we did to escape the police and army," he clarified, enunciating every word in an icy monotone, wanting her thinking tactics instead of pleasure. He watched the ex-guerrilla carefully, hoping she was beginning to understand now how deep a hole they had dug themselves into.

Fiona swallowed thickly and nodded wordlessly. Then, with a sniff, she schooled her features to show that she was back in tactical planning mode.

"We need to get off the road and into the closest woods, like Slieveanorra or better still a mountain range like that one in the distance. We need somewhere with deep tree and ground cover, caves if at all possible, but high ground with a good view of the area. So, tell me quickly, where are we headed?"

"Slieveamon," she spoke softly, blinking away the moisture filling her eyes. "Thar's a forest, mountains an' fram whot I can remember a treacherous bog... I'll get us thar. Now, clean up those cuts an' stop bleedin o'er tha upholstery."

Fiona drove onwards, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the maze of winding country lanes as she aimed the Discovery at the mountain range dominating horizon. Michael was now in the rear of the car with their rudimentary medical kit cleaning and bandaging his wrists.

She let her gaze drift to the rear view mirror, catching the sight of his battered features in the reflection. The fight back in the cottage had been brutal even by her own standards and it had given her another glimpse to the true nature of the man she had run away with and it thrilled her more than she cared to admit. He had fought for her and then saved her brother's life, even though Sean had entered the cottage with the intention of killing him.

"Michael," she wanted to tell him he had been right all along.

"Not now, Fi. Keep your eyes on the road and get us up into those hills. I'm going to make up two backpacks with our gear. We're going to stash the vehicle and go in on foot. It's gonna be a hard march, but we need to be set up somewhere by nightfall."

He spoke in the same cool clipped tones he had been using since they had left Waterford after spotting Liam talking to the two teenagers. It was on the tip of her tongue to snap back at him, but she resisted the urge. The cuts to his wrists were not the only injuries her dark haired lover was nursing. A vision of the British killer's fists smashing blows into Michael's ribs and stomach briefly filled her mind. He was probably nursing some broken ribs, bruised the very least even if he was showing little sign of it. He'd been hit in the head more than once in the melee as well.

"Fine," she mumbled and turned her attention back to the road.

()()()()()

For the next hour, they travelled in silence. The one-time paramilitary could hear him moving about in the back as he sorted through all their supplies, choosing which items were necessary and which they could do without. Every now and again she heard him mumble something, but didn't deign to reply as he was obviously in no mood to listen to anything she wanted to say.

Finally, Fiona brought the Land Rover to a stop in a deserted car park at the edge of a wide expanse of wilderness with the Slieveamon Mountain peaks risings up in the distance above a dark green forest which surrounded its base.

"It's a good coupla miles walk, but fram what I can remember this is tha shortest route ta tha forest."

She watched as Michael climbed slowly out of the back of the car, dragging two back packs with him. The petite woman could see that the journey had given his muscles time to stiffen and the bruises, which covered his face and no doubt the rest of him, would come out in glorious technicolor hues once the morning light was upon them.

"D'ya want me ta take tha car further in? Wit' tha four wheel drive, I could get us all tha way ta tha tree line. We could hide it further inta tha-"

"And leave a nice wide trail for anybody coming after us to find," Michael countered. The ex-spy lifted the smaller of the back packs and helped her settle the weight on her back. "No, it's fairly well hidden where it is and hopefully if we're seen from the air they might take us for a couple of ramblers. It's about time _something_ went our way." He tried to hide the wince of pain as he slipped his arms into the straps of his back pack.

Fiona soon found herself falling behind as the former Army Ranger set a blistering pace over the rough ground. She followed in his wake, sliding on slippery stones half buried in the mud and trying not to fall. Even worse was the threat of twisting her ankles in the deep ruts left by the cattle that grazed on the lower level of the foothills.

"Michael!" she called out. "Michael, are ya sure ya donnae want ta slow down? Ya took quite a beating an' lost a lotta blood back thar. "

He paused, his blue eyes blinking away the fine misty rain which had been falling all day.

"I'm fine, Fi, unless you need to rest for a while?"

She did, but she wasn't about to admit it. She had never felt so tired and worn out in her whole life as she did right at that moment, but Fiona would never tell him that. "No, we'll keep going."

"Good…" came the short reply and then he was off again. "We need to find somewhere to make a camp. Once we're deep enough the trees, it should be drier. Maybe if the cloud cover stays this low, we'll be able to have a small campfire."

It was late afternoon when Michael finally called an end to their march. Deep into the forest and off the marked trails, he had found a small clearing. Helping her off with the backpack, he eased the redhead down onto a rock and for the first time his blue eyes softened as he stared down at her.

"You rest up while I see to the camp. I'll make a shelter and then we can eat." The dark haired man looked up through the trees. "I think we'll be able to risk that fire I talked about."

Too worn out to say a word, the young Irishwoman just nodded wearily and then watched as her lover, still obviously in full military or super spy mode, made a small shelter using tree branches and leaves before going off to find all he needed to make a fire.

_Maybe after they had eaten a meal and had a rest he would be prepared to talk to her properly._

Wiping a hand over her face, Fiona wondered how her brothers were getting on. The wound to Sean's arm had been bleeding enough to make her worry that the Englishman's bullet might have clipped an artery. She tried to console herself with the thought Liam had trained as a doctor. It was many years ago, but her older brother had patched them all up at one time or another. That is, if they got out of the fire, which had been taking hold of the rundown property when she had driven away.

Ms. Glenanne was still lost in her thoughts when Michael returned and began to build the fire close where he had made their shelter for the night. Once lit, he sat back heavily, staring into the flames.

"I've done a quick perimeter check and I couldn't see any sign of pursuit. But that mess we left behind us will keep the local law busy for at least twenty four hours and I imagine Tom Card is doing some serious tap dancing to get outta the shit storm caused by a blown up helicopter and tactical team on foreign soil. That should slow him down a bit."

"So wa're safe fer now?"

"As safe as we're going to be until they find the car."

"If wa're safe, can we talk now?" she asked in a small voice, hoping that he had gotten over his almost wholly justified righteous indignation.

"Talk?" he countered. "I don't know what else you want me to say_,_ Fiona." His deep blue orbs bored into her weary eyes. "I told you before we ever left Dublin what was going to happen. These people, the CIA, MI6, and god only knows who else, they have resources you cannot imagine."

It was as if she had opened a floodgate because her lover was on his feet now, the fire forgotten as the words poured from between his lips. "You don't have your family or your family name backing you anymore, _they are hunting you_ and now that you're not under their protection, everyone the Glenannes have ever pissed off is lining up to put your head on a pike. Don't you understand? This is not your Daddy's war, Fiona. You're not fighting injustice and evil on your home turf. You. Are. Being. Hunted. On. Your. Home. Turf. You have one job, ONE! That's to keep yourself and the baby safe. _I can't do it for you and I can't do my job if you won't do yours!_"

All the pent-up fear and frustration caused him to begin to pace around the small clearing. "You can't keep being so irresponsible. You're not part of the Glenanne family anymore, _it's just us_. How the hell is this supposed to work? This…" and he gestured between them with a stiff and accusing forefinger. "This thing…with you and me… _How can this work if you won't listen me?_"

"I wa' tryin' ta help ya—"

Michael's blue eyes blazed. "By running into a fucking firefight unarmed, that's helpful? You _can't _ignore what I say. You _can't_ endanger yourself on a whim. You _can't_ just do whatever you feel like and expect it to work out okay. There are _consequences_ to your decisions, to your actions. God, Fiona, you're acting _just like Nate_. You don't hear a word I say, you do whatever the hell you want and then you expect me to pick up the pieces and _I won't do it anymore! __You're_ all about protecting the innocent, right? Well, there's only one innocent person that matters to me right now, the one who should be the _only one_ who matters to you!"

And then it wasn't his pregnant girlfriend he was talking to anymore. Her lover's face was alien to her as he looked right through her, his voice a low hiss she could barely make out. "It's just like getting drunk all the time, smacking and shoving people around and expecting them not to get hurt! Yeah, that always turns out well, doesn't it? That was another little defenseless life at stake, dammit!"

The shock of it all stopped him cold. Michael couldn't believe what he had just said. Suddenly his focus shifted back to her, staring into her wide, guilt-ridden orbs. The anger and the anxiety had brought one of his most deeply suppressed traumas to the surface. He'd been shouting at Fiona, trying to impress upon her how precarious their situation was, when the raw memories had crashed together in his consciousness and somehow found their way out of his mouth.

Then the astonishment compounded into outright horror as the red haze cleared from his vision and the mother-to-be of his baby was doubled over and holding herself together with shaking arms tight about her midsection, crumbled up there before him… weeping… gasping for air in between the great gulping sobs as the tears flowed freely down her tormented face. Michael was stunned.

_He'd seen her screaming mad, roaring drunk, even teary-eyed and sorrowful, but never like this...ever..._

He dropped down to her side, wrapping the wailing woman in his arms while she buried her face into his coat. The dark haired man held her tightly, totally at the loss for words. Of course, he hadn't wanted to hurt her _like this_, but _he didn't want her to be okay_. He _needed_ her to understand how _not okay _everything she had done was, so that maybe she _would_ listen to him in the future.

If it had taken getting captured and then a fire fight between her, her family and a former MI6 assassin for her to come to grips with their new reality, then she needed it stuck in her head _permanently_. They had barely escaped with their lives this time. _This cannot happen again_.

_It won't happen again_, he vowed silently as he stroked her short spiky hair and stared silently into the gathering gloom of night while his exhausted Irish lover cried herself to sleep in his embrace.


	11. Chapter 11

_**A/N: **__A short chapter to update the whereabouts of all the players and a thank you to everyone again for your appreciation of new chapter of True Believer. Hard to believe it has been year and yet we are all still here. The next chapter of __Life with Larry__ will be on the boards Saturday instead of Thursday this week. Real life is staying too REAL. A new one shot by Purdy's Pal, inspired by our 7.13 tribute chapter and following the storyline in __Pale Imitation__, will be on the boards soon. _

**()()()()()()()()**

**BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL**

**Chapter Eleven**

Liam watched as the American thief who had stolen his sister's heart backed out of the cottage and then leapt to his feet, scrabbling over the dust covered floorboards to where his younger sibling sat slumped, semi-conscious against the wall and surrounded by a pool of blood.

"Sean, Sean lad, can ya hear me?" The older man knelt down, ignoring the red which instantly stained his pant leg as he tried to get a clear look at the bullet wound in his brother's arm. "Jayzuz," he muttered when he saw the small entry hole through the tricep muscle and the large messy exit wound at the top of Sean's arm just below the shoulder.

"Okay, brudder, am getting' ya outta -" he instinctively flung himself over the wounded man as the boom of an explosion filled the air followed by the clatter and bang of falling debris. Then, just as he began to straighten up thinking that the worst was over, another blast even louder than the first. Like the roar of thunder, it shook the small cottage and was followed by the whole interior being lit up, massive fireball made out of twisted metal crashing into the lane just outside the open front door, sending flames licking up the front of the building.

"Fiona, ya bloody _bean dÚsachtach_ – !" the Irishman cursed out his sister, for he had no doubt in his mind who had been responsible for taking out the CIA's tactical team and their fancy air support.

With one eye on the spreading fire and the other on his younger brother's bloody wound, Liam reached out until his fingers grasped the blue and red striped silk tie he had spotted laying on the floor. Leaving the blood soaked jacket in place as the only padding he had available, the senior Glenanne began to wrap the tie around the junior's arm in an effort to slow the bleeding.

Having his arm joggled brought Sean back to full consciousness. Groaning in agony, he looked up at his older man through bloodshot eyes. "How bad is it?" he asked in a low whisper.

"Bad enough am gonna have ta find ya proper doctor ta put it right. Whot tha hell happened?"

"Thot Gilroy fella shot me. Twa' me own stupid fault. I stepped right by him an' then McBride shot ham twice in tha back. Tha bastid saved me life, Liam." Sean winced as his older sibling took hold of his good arm and pulled him up on to his feet.

"We cannae stay har, thot fire tis gonna burn this place ta tha ground in next ta no time, not ta mention bringing tha Garda an' every other fecker lookin' fer Fi an' Westen straight ta our door... can ya walk?"

"A better question is, are you armed?" The man they had all thought was dead was standing behind them, pointing a hand gun straight at the brothers.

The head of Clan Glenanne studied the Englishman, taking note of his badly beaten appearance and the way the gun wavered slightly in his tenuous grip. "I donnae have a gun, but whot I do have is one o' these things."

As he had been talking, Liam had slipped a hand into his brother's jacket pocket and he now held onto one of the incendiary grenades Sean had packed for the assault on the cottage. "Will thot do ya, Mister Gilroy?" He used his thumb to send the pin pinging across the floor.

The assassin was in no shape for a fight, his back was a mass of bruises and the fire at the front of the cottage had taken ahold. Soon the place would be filled with smoke and nobody would be leaving. If he had been thinking clearly, he wouldn't have faced down the brothers. "I should have just shot you," he declared in a miffed tone.

"Aye, ya shoulda. But as ya dinnae, me an' me brother will be on our way."

Gilroy stared back at him through coldly calculating blue eyes. But Liam was confident that the younger man was not ready to go for the nuclear option just yet. Seconds later, he was proved right when the CIA's hired assassin lowered his weapon.

"We'll call it a draw then. Until next time, Mr. Glenanne," Gilroy drawled as he slowly backed away, never taking his eyes off the explosive device in his adversary's hand.

"Oh, I'll be lookin' out fer ya, Mr. Mason Gilroy. Ya can count on it."

"Hm, yes, the same goes for me as well, Liam Glenanne..."

Smoke was beginning to fill the room when Liam stepped out through the kitchen door. The car they had stolen from a Waterford supermarket car park was out on the road, clear of all the damage caused by Fiona and her C4. They just had to make it there.

"Wa're gonna have ta move fast, Sean lad. Ya take tha grenade. If anybody fires on us, toss it straight at 'em." Liam squatted to lift his sibling up over his shoulder and then began to run.

**()()()()()()()**

Tom Card's new office in the US embassy in Dublin was far more comfortable than the one he had been given in the CIA's secret headquarters hidden underneath the embassy in London. For a start, he had a large window with a view. Not a great view, but it still gave him something to look at while he waited for news on the capture of his former star pupil.

The last communication from Gilroy had stated the British hired killer had found the location of the fugitives and he was going in. But that had been nearly an hour ago and since then there had been no word. Narrowing his eyes, he stared at a small brown bird, its feathered fluffed up against the cold damp weather, sitting on the branch of a tree just outside his office window.

It was a good analogy for how he felt right then, out in the cold, clinging onto a skinny branch. He needed Michael in custody and on his way back to the States with the Glenannes either dead and out of the picture or, at the very least, Ms. Fiona Glenanne in the hands of the British intelligence services where she could do no damage to the on-going peace process or Irish/American relations.

He turned away from the window and went back to his desk and the comfortable high-backed padded leather office chair. If he had Michael locked up, he could spin any story he wanted to about what happened to his agent. If he could talk the younger man into seeing the error of his ways. He just might be able to salvage a promising career and the man's mentor wasn't just thinking about his star pupil's chances to rise in the agency. A former student going rogue, and possibly damaging an important diplomatic mission, could throw up a big roadblock on the promotion opportunities for said rogue agent's training officer.

Card drummed his fingers on the desk top. _What was taking so damn long?_

The rap of knuckles on his door and then the appearance of a fresh faced young agent brought a sigh of relief to the tightly wound senior officer.

"Yes?" He snapped the word out, eager for the news that Michael was in chains and the Glenannes were dead.

The youngster by the door gulped and ran his tongue over his upper lip. "Sir, Agent Hilliard has called in requesting back up... Westen and the girl have gotten away... But that's not the worst of it, they blew up the helicopter with the crew and half the tactical team on board and... er, and...Liam Glenanne apparently killed Agent Montrose. But not before Montrose told him about Mr. Gilroy and how the CIA are chasing Agent Westen."

Tom Card blinked and slowly sank back into his chair as his mind tried to deal with the almighty pigscrew a simple forced extraction had turned into. "And what about the British boy wonder?" he asked, praying at least that the assassin he'd had forced upon him was dead too.

"Mr. Gilroy is alive. He took two shots in the back from close range. Agent Hilliard reported Gilroy has a broken rib and muscle damage but is still mobile. Unfortunately, one of the Glenannes blew up his support vehicle, so -" the junior agent's voice faded as Card's face turned crimson. The young man beat a hasty retreat back into the outer office.

With a grim expression, the senior CIA officer got to his feet and moved determinedly across the room and into his outer office, where the three other analysts he'd been loaned sat waiting to hear how their boss had reacted to the news of the spectacular failure.

"Okay, people front and center. We've got things to do." He watched impatiently as his small team of agents lined up in front of him and then got down to business."Before we start, somebody please tell me we have a bird in the air tracking Westen." His request was greeted by silence and then one man ran off frantically reaching for a phone.

Card closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath while he reminded himself he had no choice but to work with the agents who were available. The UK and Ireland were both friendly countries. The operatives sent to this region were not the same type of men who would be found in such places as Russia and the Middle East.

Opening his intense ice blue eyes, he turned his attention back to the three remaining men.

"You..." He jabbed a finger at the young man who had originally delivered the bad news. "Speak to the local cops. No one and I mean _no one_ is to interfere with the scene. We're sending our own investigators down there and, until they arrive, we would be grateful if they continue to keep any sightseers away. Make up something about sensitive, classified equipment, or documents being on board..."

"You..." He moved down the line to the next poor unfortunate soul. "Get on the cleaners. I want every single piece of evidence picked up and all signs of what happened removed and I want it done _yesterday_..."

"And you," he addressed the last man standing. "Get the press office on the phone, put out the story it was a tragic accident. The engine malfunctioned during a training exercise or whatever..."

He half turned away then caught the eye of his personal secretary, a middle aged woman who had been with him for the last three years when he noticed no one was moving. "Come on, people, get going! And you," he said to the blonde. "Get Richard Chamber's on the phone and tell him we need to talk and don't take no for an answer."

Back in his office with the door closed, Tom Card paced around his small office, part of him felt a small glow of pride that his former star pupil had kicked Mason Gilroy's ass. Now, _just maybe_, the Brit's would _finally_ let him the free hand he needed to get the job done.

**()()()()()()()**

It felt like every muscle and nerve ending in his body was screaming at him, but Michael knew better. The ordinary stiffness which accompanied sleeping in an uncomfortable position was nothing new to the former spy. It was something he had spent a lot of time dealing with throughout his teen and adult life. No, the pain which had forced him awake came from the sharp pointed elbow which was digging into the multitude of bruises covering his ribs.

His padded winter jacket offered his back some protection between himself and the rough uneven surface of the tree trunk he was leaning back against. But the back of his head was not so fortunate. Resisting the urge to stir and disturb the sleeping woman settled between his legs and ensconced in his arms, her lover pressed a light kiss into the short shorn tresses.

He would have to wake her soon. She needed to lie down and the shelter he had made would offer her more protection from the cold as the night drew on. But for now he cradled her in his arms, a reminder of how close he had come to losing her and their baby hours earlier.

Thinking back on what happened was painful, but necessary. There was a reason the Agency insisted on long and detailed debriefings following an operation. _This particular op had gone completely sideways_ and he spared a moment to contemplate how annoyed the Irishwoman would be if she knew he was thinking of their lives as a mission that needed to be examined and dissected.

But that was how he had been trained and that training had kept him alive up until now. If he allowed the turmoil in his heart to affect his mind again like he had last night, then they were dead already and just didn't know it yet. His lover played havoc with his self-control, _she always had..._

Feeling her warmth and her weight pressed up against him, a part of Michael felt sorry for the way he had come unglued on her. It wasn't her fault his brother was an irresponsible addict who always expected _Big Bro_ and everyone around him to clean up his mess. But it was her fault for acting like Nate and it wasn't something they could afford while they were on the run from the world at large.

The thought of how close he'd come to losing that tiny little life cocooned inside her along with her had terrified him. Fiona was courageous to the point of recklessness and she thought about others more than herself. It was something about her he had admired; however, he needed her to think about their baby more than anyone else and he just couldn't figure out how to get her to do that.

He shuddered involuntarily, as the boxes containing one of his most horrific moments rattled in his head, threatening to spill out again. _He couldn't have been more than three, maybe four years old?_

_The besotted shouting, the split second of shoving that ended in a terrible fall, the soul shattering cries of his mother and then the blood and the panic and the confusion as the sirens came to his house again, being taken away by the police for a different reason than his father had. _It was something buried so deep and never touched again until he had found himself running for his life with his pregnant girlfriend in tow, desperately trying to keep that little life from being snuffed out.

That reality sent another shiver through his spine, eclipsing the memories of his childhood. _Fiona was more than his girlfriend. She was his lover, his life now and about to be the mother of his child_. _How could he protect her if he couldn't convince her to keep herself safe and out of harm's way?_

He needed to come up with a plan, some sort of strategy to get them both safely out of Ireland. Carefully easing his body away from the tree, he whispered into Fiona's ear. "Fi, you need to sleep."

"I'm fine, Michael," she spoke sleepily and then stifled a yawn.

"No, you need lie down. I'm going to make one more sweep and then I'll be back. Nobody is going to start a search in the middle of the night."

Thankfully, she didn't argue with him any further. Once he made sure she was wrapped tightly in her sleeping bag and he'd fed a little more wood on to the fire, the ex-spy set off to check nobody was close by.

Michael suspected that Card would concentrate on clearing away the wreckage and cleaning out the cottage in a search for clues. Then tomorrow the search would begin in earnest. Gazing up at the cloud covered sky, he listened intently for any sounds of helicopters passing overhead. But there was nothing apart from the ordinary night time noises. At least being south of the border meant they didn't have to worry the British Army joining the hunt with their thermal cameras.

**()()()()()()()**

Samantha Keyes stood in the doorway to her Moscow apartment, her brown eyes wide and her lips trembling. She wasn't quite sure if the rush of adrenaline streaming through her body was due to anger or fear as she surveyed the destruction before her.

"_They're two kinds of government surveillance: the kind that's there to look for something and the kind that's just there to make your target's life difficult."_

Michael had passed on that little gem of information on the night she had helped him slip inside the Mariinsky Palace in St. Petersburg. The reason for their masterful breaking and entering was not to steal anything, rather to plant listening devices in the Minister for the Interior's private office using bugs of Chinese design and positioned in such a way that they would be discovered the next time the recently commissioned FSB ran a security sweep.

At the time, she had found it quite exhilarating, and to be truthful entertaining, that they were going to all the trouble of sneaking inside a magnificent palace reduced to a government building just to slow down the renewing relationship between the two super powers.

However, now she was on the other end of that surveillance, she felt chills run up and down her spine. The man she had at first sensed following on her journey from the center of London out to the hotel next to Heathrow Airport had been expected and hadn't really bothered herm as she arranged for one of her many London contacts to find a woman willing to act as a decoy.

It had been amusing to finally catch a good look at the man who was tailing her when he had followed the decoy towards the Aer Lingus departure gate, unaware that the woman he was shadowing was not a Russian-based master thief but instead was a highly paid escort more used to spending her time in the company of the wealthy elite who holidayed in London. But, for a very hefty fee, the woman had been happy to hide in an airport rest room change clothes with a stranger and then take a plane to Dublin.

But now, standing in the doorway of her Moscow apartment, Ms. Keyes was debating turning tail and running as far as she could or stepping inside what had been her favorite sanctuary.

_Every class of criminal has their own set of fears. Usually the bogeyman lives in the mirror. A thief triple-locks their doors._

The locks on her door had been picked and by a very skilled individual, as from the outside she had seen no clue to what was waiting for her inside.

_Whether it's a stray hair arranged to detect if someone's opened a drawer or a cabinet booby-trapped with explosives, field operatives know how to secure their hiding places. So, if you're searching a pro's home, you can't just toss the place like a cop with a warrant._

But that was precisely what they had done, though _tossed_ wasn't the word she would have used.

Taking a deep breath, the leggy brunette tiptoed inside to survey the damage and it didn't take her long to realized whoever had destroyed her home hadn't been looking for anything. This had been a warning: _we can come into your home any time we want._

Samantha had returned to Moscow because going to Ireland would have been a waste of her time. She had no contacts in country and the little bits of information she had managed to gather during her night in the airport hotel had been enough to convince her that asking questions about any of the Glenannes on either side of the Irish border would have been bad for her health. Back home in Russia, the master thief knew people who could reach out across Europe and get her some of the answers she wanted without any of the risk.

But now she knew the truth. _She wasn't going to be safe anywhere until the CIA got what they wanted. _After one more look around what had been her primary sanctuary, the terrified woman ran outside and went searching for the one man she believed would be able to keep her safe and had the network which could help her find the answers she needed more than ever.

**()()()()()()()**

It was late when Fiona woke up again. The right side of her body was sore from where she had crashed the chair to wooden floor of the cottage to free herself. Her neck was a little stiff and her head ached slightly, but the redhead really became concerned when she realized she couldn't move. But the panic of paralysis faded and a new fear took its place when Ms. Glenanne realized she was cocooned tightly in a downy sleeping bag, lying on the ground up in the Slieveamon Mountains.

Rapidly blinking the sleep from her eyes and wriggling a hand free to swipe at them, she surveyed her surroundings. Her lover was perched on a stump near the fire, soaking in its warmth against the cold night air. Fiona felt a wave of guilt wash over her about what had happened back at the cottage, tinged with some embarrassment as well at the massive crying jag that had overcome her. She was passionate, of that there was no doubt. Her temper had gotten her both in and out of trouble. But she rarely let her emotions reduce her to a quivering, helpless sobbing mess incapable of doing anything. Surely it was the physical exhaustion of the trek, the emotional upheaval of what had almost happened and, though she was loathe to admit it, those damned pregnancy hormones…

The Irishwoman inched the zipper down and sat up slowly, making sure not to disturb the roof of her surprisingly cozy little shelter. The larger movement caught his attention more fully and she waited quietly to see what his mood was. They stared at each other for a long moment before a small smile graced his face, the firelight shining his eyes as he nodded and simply said, "Hey…"

"Hey, yourself…" Fiona shinnied out of the fluffy warmth and closed the small distance between them on her knees slowly. He helped her up to sit in his lap and pressed a kiss to her temple before settling his arms around her. She sighed and leaned into his shoulder, not protesting when he tucked her head under his scruffy chin. The overgrowth which he claimed was a beard tickled somewhat.

She breathed deep and listened to his steady heartbeat. Ms. Glenanne knew she had some serious apologizing to do, particularly with what had happened with her brothers, but she wanted a moment of peace between them to bolster her courage before she began. Saying sorry wasn't something she did particularly well. Fighting like banshees and then just getting over it was the family modus operandi.

"Am sorry, Michael," she said softly and paused, testing his reaction. "Am sorry I dinnae listen ta ya an' Am sorry I dinnae trust ya ta nae shoot me brudder. I know I could've made ya shoot ham by mistake poundin' on ya like thot when ya war just tryin' ta disarm ham." She skipped over the bit about running unarmed into a fire fight, which had caused him to curse earlier. _One thing at a time_, she decided. "I know thar are bigger things out thar than me family after us, I see it now. Am sorry."

When he didn't answer her, Fiona risked a glance upwards. He wasn't angry. Michael seemed more lost in his own thoughts than anything. She almost wanted to ask what he was talking about earlier, about drunkards hurting innocent little lives. But the petite woman decided that was a conversation for another time and would surely muddy the waters of what she needed to convey next.

"But as ya've already pointed out, tis just us, thar's only the two o' us. Ya've made thot plain and I'll try ta follow yar lead, but ya need ta remember sommit. Am pregnant, nae crippled an' ya cannae carry this whole thing by yarself. Ya need ta figure out how ta work wit' me and stop cuttin' me out all the time. Yer gonna git yarself killed tryin' ta get between me and tha rest o' tha world."

_There, she had said it_. His lover waited quietly to see what his response was.

It was his turn to draw a deep breath before speaking. It was easier to talk like this, she decided, holding one another, but not having to look each other in the face. _They really were no good at this._

"I shouldn't have yelled at you like that. I was just—I mean, I—You could have been killed." He sighed heavily. "When we worked together before, even when my cover was blown, we worked as a team because we were still on the same mission, on the same page. We were working together on your turf to accomplish a goal and I deferred to your expertise on the matter. That's not how it is anymore, it can't be. Not when-"

"Ya war havin' too much fun in me bed ta argue wit' me," she teased gently.

"Point taken," he agreed, his tone a little lighter. "But the_ important_ point is, we still may be on your turf, but that's a disadvantage now. Your family knows all your moves and we're being hunted by my people too. So, we need to do this my way. It's the only way this succeeds. I promise, I'll try to remember you're still capable for now."

"Whot's thot supposed ta mean?" She was tempted to punch him, but then she remembered all the blows he'd already taken from the British assassin yesterday trying to protect her. "Never mind…"

Michael kissed the top of her head. "Look, if I get into tactical mode, that's just how I function best in these situations. Try not to take it personally. And I'll also try to remember we need to spend some time like this just decompressing whenever we can. Fair enough? Hopefully your appetite for action has been satisfied for the moment?"

"Aye, Mc- Michael…" She took one of his hands and pressed a kiss to the swollen and bandaged knuckles. "Ya can assume thot means yes. I'll try ta behave and do as I'm told, though ya already know how bad Am about doing thot and ya'll try ta remember ta nae treat me like a china doll."

The dark haired man leaned his head down and Fiona met his mouth, lightly touching his lips in deference to how cut and bloodied though they were. She tucked her head back under his chin then.

"But donnae think I donnae know whot yar up ta. Ya keep takin' risks like thot tryin' ta protect me cuz ya think if ya get yarself killed, then I can go back ta me family. Well, ya'd be wrong about thot. How d'ya I'll able ta get back ta them if ya go and get yarself done in? So it goes both way, Michael. I need ya ta be safe as much as ya need me ta be safe. We both need ya alive, understand me?"

"Fine," he conceded. "We're agreed we're going to play it safe." Then the former covert operative laughed for the first time in what seemed like ages. "Wanna take bets on who breaks that first?"

"I bet," Fiona countered as she slowly stood. "That you haven't eaten a thing."

"While you were sleeping actually, so you're the one that needs to eat, as you're eating for two."

The Irishwoman looked up and realized that the sun wasn't far off from trying to peek over the horizon. That meant he had been up most of the night on guard duty.

"Well, then, ya need ta get some proper rest while Am having a bite ta eat and donnae argue with me. Ya cannae protect me if yer fallin' asleep on yar feet."

"Fine…" Michael stood up, his injuries still apparent in the stiffness of his movements. "Wake me up a couple hours after dawn and we'll head farther up into the woods."

She watched as her lover settled down into the sleeping bag before she began to sort through their supplies of tinned food to see what was for breakfast.

()()()()()()()

To say that Mason Gilroy was livid would be a mild understatement at best. But in the finest tradition of his countrymen, he was determined to keep a stiff upper lip and carry on. The first good Samaritan that spotted him trudging towards town in the darkness had the benefit of his good graces, primarily because he was low on ammunition and too damned sore from his fight with Michael Westen to be lugging a body about to dispose of it. _Despite all one's training, broken ribs were still broken ribs after all._ Nevertheless, it actually entertained him to think about how fortunate the portly old Irishwoman was that she had bad eye sight, poor hearing and a gullible nature, making it easy for him to spin the lie about a hit and run driver leaving him by the road side.

That and the virtual parade of emergency vehicles heading the other way towards the cottage, soon to be followed by a crew of CIA cleaners if he knew Tom Card at all. But the American was the least of his concerns. Mason Gilroy had a reputation to protect and a debt to collect. The Glenanne family was going to get the bill, as it were. He was going to take great pleasure in seeing to it that every one of them suffered a little before they died. But first he was going to bring Michael Westen back in chains for a front row seat at that show before he handed him over to his CIA overlords.

()()()()()()()

"Michael…" A voice was whispering in his ear while a small hand was touching on his shoulder. His hand shot, grasping her wrist before recognition dawned. Fiona swallowed hard, but didn't jerk away from him. "Michael, it's time to go."

It was his turn to sit up slowly, taking his surroundings in more quickly than she had. The kits were already packed, the fire dismantled and its remnants disposed of. All that was left was to wrap up the sleeping bag and destroy the shelter as thoroughly as possible before moving on.

"Good morning, sleepy head…" She leaned over to press a kiss to his whiskery cheek. "I'd kill for a spot of toothpaste right now," Fiona announced before handing him a bottle of water.

"Just wait until tomorrow…" He chuckled at her pout. "How are you feeling?"

"Nasty, but rested…I think me clothes can do tha walkin' fer me after yesterday."

Michael rose and started stowing away the rest of the gear. Fiona sat on the stump, taking her breather while she could. Hopefully, and she felt bad for thinking this, her lover's injuries would slow him down a little_. It was the second day that was always the hardest_. After demanding that he treat her as still capable, the last thing she wanted to do was ask for him to moderate his pace for her.

"We'll try going a little easier today. The terrain is going to get more treacherous as we get higher up and hopefully they'll mistake us for hikers if they spot us from the air. I _don't expect_ they will have finished processing the scene yet. Tom Card's _probably not_ going to be able to round up air support without having to explain to a lot of people what happened to the last bird he borrowed," he declared, modifying his previous assessment of their situation.

"Whatever ya think is best," she said sweetly as he settled the back pack between her shoulders. "We cannae be taa careful after all."

"You just couldn't resist, could you?" But his smile belayed the sarcasm in his remark.

"Sadly, no," Fiona agreed with a grin. "Shall we find a delightful cave ta set up housekeeping in?"

"Let's hope that's the only thing we find today."

()()()()()()()

Two young men stood huddled together inside the public phone box out on the street corner next to _The Anchor_ public house. Feeding coins into the box, the older of the two clutched the handset tightly with one hand and carefully pressed on the keys as his younger friend read out the digits.

"Hola...?" The voice that came through the ear piece was gruff and definitely not Spanish.

"Hello thar, Tommy, tis Martin, Martin McCullough. D'ya remember me?"

For a moment, the only sound was the other man breathing. Then he finally spoke. "Aye, I remember. Twas ya an' yar brother got me outta Ireland after me bit o' trouble. What d'ya want?"

"I've just heard a tale I thought ya would be interested in... A coupla days ago, some o' Seamus Glenanne's crew wa' passin out word they wanted ta know if anyone saw Fiona around. They wa' ta give Seamus a call... Well, me girlfriend's ma has been telling me an interesting story about Fiona being in Waterford an' we thought ya might be offering more cash fer tha news than Glenanne."

"She still thar?"

"We dunno. She wa' har two days ago. We woulda let ya know if -"

"See if ya can find har. Am comin' o'er as soon as I can arrange a ride. Call me back on this number tomorrow. If ya have a location, I'll make sure yer well taken care of. Don't worry about it, Martin. Thomas O'Neill always pays his debts."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **_ Here at last is the next chapter of our tale of two star-crossed lovers. We thank you for reading, reviewing and continued enthusiasm for our stories. Real life has just gone off the rails lately for both of us. As such, there are a few changes. __Life with Larry__ will update on Saturdays, but we have no idea right now which Saturdays. So, that said, we promise to let everyone know after #BurnerClub on Thursdays if there will be an update of LWL on that upcoming Saturday._

_We will try our best to continue to post regular updates of this story every Thursday after #BurnerClub. Mondays just don't work for either one of us. So, without further ado, our story..._

**()()()()()()()()**

**BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL**

**Chapter Twelve**

Mason Gilroy was still seething an hour after his rather unpleasant telephone conversation with Tom Card. The jumped-up training officer had had the nerve to call _him_ incompetent and a rank amateur and then had proceeded to tell him he was off the case. The final insult had come in the form of snide advice. If he expected a pay check, then he needed to be talking to Richard Chambers.

Standing in the en-suite of his room in the ambitiously named Grand Hotel in the center of Waterford, the hired killer examined at his battered features in the mirror attached to the wall above the white porcelain sink.

A nights sleep had done nothing to restore his temper or his normal good looks. A broken cheekbone and a broken nose meant most of his face was swollen and disfigured, though both would heal in time. Carefully twisting around, he noted his back was a mess. But thanks to the bulletproof vest he had worn, there was nothing worse than large painful bruises. Thankfully his original assessment of broken ribs had been proven wrong.

"Foreplay," he muttered and tried to raise a smile. However, the sight of his bloodstained teeth had him reaching for his toothbrush and paste.

_So Westen liked to play rough..._ Gilroy twisted the tap until water flowed into the sink and, once he had applied a generous amount of toothpaste to the brush, he set about scrubbing his teeth clean.

_That was fine by him... _The toothbrush caught on something and the killer felt a sudden tug. _There was just a couple of things he was going to have to take care of first._ A white molar landed in the sink and, before the Brit could grab it, the tooth disappeared down the drain.

Investigating the hole left in his gum with his tongue, the assassin frowned as he felt a cold icy rage begin to build. _This would not do..._

He would take a few days to rest and recuperate and then, once he was refreshed and thinking clearly, he would begin to plan his revenge. A plan which would involve lots of blood, an inordinate amount of pain, followed by several suitably gruesome deaths and afterwards, once he had restored his reputation, he would leave the UK and travel further afield, maybe to the Americas.

From what he had been told, there was lots to do for a man with his particular skill set over there in that brave new world across the Atlantic Ocean.

**()()()()()**

Much to Fiona's relief, Michael kept to his word and set a much slower pace than the day before as he lead the way deeper into the forest and, more importantly, further away from the well-marked pathways and trails which criss-crossed the foothills leading up to the mountain.

"All those footpaths out here, they work in our favor. It means we don't have to worry about having to dodge dog walkers and hikers, as they're going to mostly stick to the trails," the dark haired spy commented as he carefully made his way down a slippery slope into a gulley and then turned to hold his hand out to help her down.

"So, whot do we do if we come across somebody? Do we shoot tham?" She grinned up into her lover's eyes, her mood greatly improved now that they had had a chance to clear the air.

"Gunfire would be a bad idea." He kept hold of her hand as they made their way along the gulley, steadily climbing upwards. "If we hear any one close by, we'll hide until they pass."

"Silencers war made precisely fer this situation, Michael, an' I know we have two in yar back pack."

"No guns, Fi, unless absolutely necessary." _His look told her he knew now she was teasing_.

Before she could retort, he suddenly let go of her hand and moved forward at a faster pace to where a rotted tree trunk blocked their path.

"Michael?" She watched as he took out a wicked looking knife with a curved blade and began to slice several of the large flat fungi growing out of the log.

"Oyster mushrooms," he answered, holding out one of the pale slices. "They're safe to eat."

"Are ya sure? I mean thar are a lotta poisonous mushrooms and toadstools out har. Ya have ta be careful." Fiona took the slice from him, turning it over in her hands.

"Trust me, I know what I'm talkin' about. We'll add it to our meal tonight." Taking the mushroom back, he turned her about and added the freshly cut fungi to the food already in her back pack. "With a little luck, we'll find some other plants to add to the pot, or maybe a squirrel or two to season the stew," the former Ranger added with a grin.

"Squirrel?" The redhead wrinkled her nose. "Thar's nae enough meat on one o' tham ta make a proper meal. If ya intent on living like a wild man, I expect nuttin' less than venison fer me supper."

"You expect me to bring down a deer with a knife or a pistol? You have really high expectations of my skills and I don't think you wanna to drag a carcass that size all over the woods."

"Who said anything about _me_ carrying tha bloody thing about?" she answered airily and smiled.

"C'mon," he urged, internally relieved they were getting along again. "We should keep moving."

**()()()()()**

"Thot girl has been stood out thar in tha cold fer tha last two hours an' I cannae get har ta come back inside." Isabelle Glenanne gestured with a nod of her head to her bedroom's large sash window. "As soon as she wa' done feedin' her babbies, she handed me Peter an' said she had ta go outside... An' ya jus' have ta look at har ta see she has nae slept a wink."

Maeve Glenanne moved the lacy net curtain shielding the room from the bright spring sunshine aside to stare out of the window, her blue-green eyes narrowing as she watched the slender figure of Sean's young wife pace nervously back and forth along the gravel driveway at the front of her home.

"I'll go an' keep har company," the family matriarch said, turning back around to face the black haired young woman sitting on the bed with her own baby girl in her arms and her youngest niece and nephew playing on the floor at by her feet. "How are tha wee ones?"

"Aw, thar as good as gold." Isabelle smiled fondly at two year old Sian and her fourteen month old brother. "An' Molly har is enjoying tha company." She tickled her own baby girl, making the chubby six month old squeal with laughter and kick her legs.

"Rosie will calm down once she sees har man." Maeve leaned down to kiss both youngsters playing on the floor on the top of the head before straightening back up. "We both remember whot it's like tha first time they come home after a dust up."

"Aye, thot we do." Isabelle's smile faded at the memory of Seamus being carried home by two of his crew, his leg a bloody mess after an arms delivery had gone wrong. "But it donnae make it any easier."

"No, it donnae. But we do whot we must, do we nae?"

The senior Mrs. Glenanne took her time walking down to the ground floor of the seven bedroom Georgian manor house which had been her home for the last fourteen years. She had thought the war was over. After the referendum, in which the people from both sides of the border voted resoundingly in favor of peace, she thought she would get to live out the remainder of her years watching the next generation of Glenannes grow up in a world her dearly parted and greatly missed husband would have approved of.

"_Me mudder always said thar's a difference between living, an' livin' free." _She could hear her beloved Patrick's voice as if he was at her side, speaking the words he had muttered after discovering his younger brother had been killed by a British soldier on the streets of Derry. _"An' after this nights work, I believe those English heathens proved they'd rather we dinnae live at all."_

The "Good Friday" agreement wasn't promising a united Ireland or even guaranteeing home rule, but it had been a big step in the right direction in bringing all sides to the table. Most of the changes voted upon had yet to come into force while there were still issues to be thrashed out, as old hatreds and suspicions died hard. It was those hatreds that she feared her daughter's actions would spark into another thirty years of fighting.

Before going out the front door, the elderly albeit still fiery Irishwoman crossed the hallway to check on the rest of Seamus and Isabelle's brood. All five of her remaining grandchildren were sitting in the living room with the TV blaring loudly as they watched cartoons or played with the large selection of toys she kept in a box for her young guests.

Patrick, the eldest who was supposed to be watching over his younger siblings, was slouched down in one corner of the couch, all his attention on his Game Boy, while his ten year old twin brothers, Brendan and Dara, were teasing their little sister, Maggie, as she tried to play with her _My Little Ponies_ models and five year old Milo, left to his own devices, threw large plastic bricks all about.

Having taken in the scene in one quick glance, Maeve crossed the room swiftly, snatching the video game from her oldest grandson's hands. "_Patrick James Glenanne,_ yer supposed ta be watchin' over yar brothers an' sister, not goin' cross-eyed playin' wit' this thing," she scolded the slim youth, who was now sitting up straight and glaring at his siblings.

"I wa' -"

"I know tis boring ta be inside. But ya cannae be outside today an' we need ya all ta be good fer when yar Uncle Sean comes home."

"Is Uncle Sean gonna die?" Maggie asked as she hugged one of her many model ponies.

"No, child, whotever gave ya thot idea?"

"Then why is Auntie Rose cryin' so much?" Brendan joined the conversation at the same moment his twin Dara spoke up.

"We heard ya talkin' wit our mammy thot Uncle Sean could lose his arm... Is he gonna have ta have his arm chopped off, Granma?" The youngster made a sawing motion just above his elbow.

"No, I -"

And before she could answer first, Maggie and then Milo got to their feet and wrapped their arms about her legs. "Are tha bad men comin' here? Pat said Uncle Sean has been shot by a bad man?" This from Maggie, followed immediately by Milo voicing his own fears.

"I want me daddy," the boy declared before wiping his nose on his grandmother's skirt.

The old woman blinked as her grandchildren continued to bombard her with questions. Her own children had been born during the worst of the violence. Her first born had come into the world the same year her brother-in-law Milo had been killed.

By the time Liam was born two years later, her husband was a full-fledged member of the IRA, fighting in skirmishes during the bloody border campaign and well on his way to becoming a master bomb maker for the cause he had taken to his heart. After those early battles in the late fifties came the civil rights riots and the running street battles, before what became known as Na Trioblóidí or, The Troubles, and the British army occupation of the North.

All her children had grown up knowing to keep quiet and out of the way when an injured family member or friend was carried into the house. But for this new generation, this was a unique and frightening event. It had been just over three years since her golden angel, Claire, had been taken from them and back then Seamus had sent the children off to stay with his in-laws to shield them from any potential violence.

"Enough now, me darlings, yar Uncle Sean will be as right as rain. He has nothin' more than a scratch... Now, Patrick, get ta yar feet. I have sandwiches in tha fridge fer ya all. Take yar brothers an' sister through ta tha kitchen an' get tham settled down. Thar's lemonade an' I think thar's a bottle o' dandelion an' burdock in tha pantry ya can have." She began to herd the younger members of the family out of the door.

"Patrick..." She stopped her oldest grandson before he could exit. "Make a cuppa fer me an' yar Auntie Rose an' put tham in tha front parlour fer me. Thar's a good lad." She patted the pre-teen on the cheek and then sucked in a deep breath as she headed to the heavy wooden door.

**()()()()()**

Michael checked his watch. It was coming up mid-day and he estimated they had barely covered more than four or possibly five miles in the five hours they had been walking. The ground they were covering was tricky, as they had to make their own path and try not to leave too many clues to the direction they were heading in. But even allowing for that, they were still far behind the target he had set in his mind.

Looking up through the branches of the trees, he pursed his lips together when he saw the darkening clouds overhead. More rain would make the forest floor even more slippery than it was already. He glanced over to where his lover leaned against a tree trunk, her tiny frame wilting under the weight of her backpack and the fatigue which along with the rapid mood swings seemed to be the two main symptoms of her condition.

_Condition..._ He looked away, turning his attention to the mud covering his boots as if the wet earth held some strange fascination. _She was pregnant. They were going to have a baby and he didn't have a single clue as to how on earth they were going to make their new reality work._

The ex-spy sighed heavily and only just managed to stop the wince of pain from showing on his face. His injuries from fighting with the British assassin were the more immediate problem.

He was pretty sure he was nursing at least one broken rib and his stomach and torso were a mass of bruises, as were all four of his limbs. The battered man knew he needed rest and pain relief; however, for now, rest was out of the question and the contents of their meager first aid kit needed to be saved in case of _real_ emergencies. So, the former military man had decided he would just have to suck it up until they could find a safe haven far away from civilization.

"Michael, how about followin' yar own advice?" While he had been distracted with his own thoughts, Fiona had walked over, offering him a half-empty bottle of water. "Drink a little an' often I believe wa' whot ya said... An' I have nae seen ya take barely a drop in tha last hour."

"I'm fine, Fi," he replied, taking the bottle, holding it up to his lips and then swallowing deeply.

"Fine?" Without warning, she pressed her fingers into his side and even through the layers of clothing, the former operative felt the pressure. It was enough to make him gasp in pain and drop the empty water bottle onto the ground.

"Am sorry..." Her slender hands gently held his shoulders, supporting him as he caught his breath. "Am sorry, I dinnae know ya war thot hurt, though it's been as plain as day ever since we set off thot yer getting' worse tha longer yer on yar feet."

"It's bruises, that's all." He smiled, or rather grimaced through the pain as he tried to reassure her that nothing was wrong.

"D'ya want me ta poke ya in tha ribs again or ar' ya gonna show me whot ya've done ta yerself?" Her hands drifted from his shoulders to the front of his jacket and pulling down the zipper before he could stop her.

He captured her wrists in an effort to prevent her from lifting his jumper and the shirt underneath.

"Fi, we have no time for this."

"Remember whot we talked about? Last night, we talked about staying safe, ya recall? If ya have a busted rib or if ya have sommit else wrong wit' ya, it cannae be ignored." She continued to stare up at him, her expression daring him to argue further.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he released his grip on her slender wrists and pulled up on his clothing, exposing his badly beaten flesh to the cold fresh air. He looked straight ahead as his lover bent to examine the bruising, her fingertips trailing lightly over his tender skin.

"If I dinnae know better, I'd say ya'd fallen under a lorry." She straightened up. "Though I think a lorry might've done less damage. Whot did thot English bastid hit ya wit'?... Well, whotever it wa', I can feel one broken rib and another maybe fractured. Ya should be taped up an' restin' an' nae traipsing through tha woods risking a punctured lung."

Sighing softly, the former spy carefully tucked in his shirt and pulled the hem of the jumper down.

"We have to keep moving. We have no choice. We're not safe here."

As if to make his point, the peace of the forest was suddenly broken by the excited barking of at least two dogs.

The fugitive couple exchanged glances as their hands closed about the grips of their handguns. For several seconds, they stood frozen to the spot until the sounds of the animals faded away.

"We'll look for somewhere to stop for the day," Michael conceded. "But not here. We have to get deeper into the forest and away from the footpaths. We'll take it easy, I promise." His large hand cupped her cheek as his lips ghosted over hers in a very light, soft kiss.

"And - Remember what you said this morning about the lack of toothpaste or mouthwash?" He plucked a couple of bright green leaves off a nearby bush. Handing her one, he popped the other one into his mouth and chewed. "At least there's plenty of mint growing wild."

**()()()()()**

Rosanna Flanagan Glenanne stopped her pacing and looked around sharply as she heard the front door open. She had been a bundle of nerves, ever since her brother-in-law Liam's late afternoon phone call from the day before letting them all know how badly their attempt to bring Fiona back to the safety of her family had gone.

The young woman may have been born and raised in London; however, she had grown up watching the reports on the six o'clock news and listening to enough talk during family gatherings to know what she was getting into when she took a liking to the mysterious brooding activist that her parents had given shelter to during the late winter and spring of 1996.

She had quickly learned not to ask where he went when he disappeared for days at a time and to wash the bloodstains from his clothes when he did return without comment. But, for all that, she had believed with an end to The Troubles in sight and talk of peace that her family was safe from the bloodshed and the reprisals which had marked the last thirty years of Irish history.

"Rosie, sweetheart, yer gonna catch yar death o' cold standin' out har. Come inside wit' ya."

The petite blonde thought briefly of refusing her mother-in-law's request. But that small spark of rebellion died instantly as the older Mrs. Glenanne reached her side and slipped a slender arm about her waist.

"Ya see thot fella by tha gates?" Maeve inclined her head in the direction of the twelve foot high wrought iron gates at the end of the driveway and the tall, heavy set man masquerading as a gardener. "Thot's one of Liam's men. He's gonna let us know tha second Seamus comes inta sight. So, come an' wait in tha warm."

"They should be har by now," the young woman complained. "When Seamus called, he said they would be on tha road as soon as they got Sean inta tha car an' thot wa' four hours ago."

"Seamus will be driving carefully, obeyin' all tha rules o' tha road, an' ya getting' yarself worked up inta a state is nae gonna help yar man. He's gonna need ta see ya bein' strong and thot yer capable o' holding yar family tagether."

Rose allowed Maeve to guide her back towards the house. "Let's sit down in me parlour and have a nice cuppa tea. All thot pacin' about tha place ya've been doing is nae gonna make thot son o' mine drive any faster."

**()()()()()**

"Is thar no other way across?" Fiona stood on the edge of a chasm, staring down at the fast flowing water running along a stony stream bed thirty feet below.

"There might be, but it could take us hours to find it. Besides, this way will make it harder for anybody following us."

She gave him a look filled with doubt. "_If_ we make it across, wonnae anybody coming after us just do tha exact same thing?"

"Not if we get rid of the branch once we're across," he answered. Then, taking her hand in his, he walked over to where a thick heavy branch formed a makeshift bridge over the twenty foot gap.

The petite redhead had plenty of misgivings about trusting their weight to the narrow and what looked like a decidedly unsteady platform. Swallowing thickly, she put one foot on the branch and felt it roll slightly under the weight of her boot.

"Michael, yer talking about us trusting our weight ta a rotted piece o' wood."

"It'll be fine, Fi. Look, I'll go first. It's not far."

"I'm not scared, Michael... Am thinkin' o' ya." _There, she had said it_ and Fiona knew as soon as she saw that stubborn glint in his eyes that she had made a mistake. "Yer hurt an' this - thar has ta be another way ta - cross." Her words trailed to a stop as the former spy continued to glare.

"I said_ I'm fine,_" he spoke from behind clenched teeth and a stony expression. Before his lover could say any more, he stepped past her and onto the unsteady, narrow bridge and began to edge his way across.

"Dammit, Michael, Am supposed ta be tha impetuous one."

She leaned down, using her hands and weight to keep the shaky platform as still as possible as the love of her life slowly made his way across to the other side of the ravine.

Far sooner than Fiona expected, the American ex-operative was across and grinning back at her while he pressed his arm into his side in an effort to ease the pain radiating from his ribs.

"Come on, slow poke," he teased. The dark haired man placed a foot on the branch to steady it while she took a deep breath before lightly running across to join him.

"I'm pretty sure whoever they send after us next is not going to risk jumping, at least not at this spot. So it should at least buy us some time," Michael commented as they worked together to send the heavy branch crashing down into the water far below.

"Yer right," Fiona admitted, planting a kiss to his whiskery cheek as they both straightened. "But donnae let it go ta yar head."

**()()()()()**

The front parlour was Maeve's private sanctuary. It was where she spent a lot of her time on the days she was alone in the large rambling house, save for the company of her beloved Belgium Shepherds. Staying overly warm due to the log fire she kept permanently alight during the cold months and with the walls covered with family photographs and every available space holding some object which signified a special memory, this was the room where the matriarch of the family felt most comfortable.

Taking one of the two high backed chairs positioned close to the smoldering fire, Rosie noted two cups of tea were already waiting for them on the small table between her chair and her mother-in-law's favorite place next to the hearth.

"Have a sip o' yar sweet tea and calm yarself," the older Mrs. Glenanne instructed, taking her seat before leaning forward to follow her own advice.

The younger woman had been distraught ever since Liam had called the day before to let them know that not only had they missed their chance to catch hold of the fugitive couple, but somehow Sean had been shot by a British operative sent to kill or capture Westen.

Then later that evening, when it had been reported on the news that a helicopter belonging to the American Embassy had crashed just outside of Waterford, killing all on board, the blonde had burst into tears and had to be taken up to her room to calm down.

"Calm meself, ya say? How can I sit har when-?" Sean's young wife swallowed hard and tried to do just that. "I – I heard whot Liam said. He said he wa' havin' ta find a doctor, a surgeon, somebody ta fix Sean's arm. Thot he could lose tha use o' it if he dinnae get some help soon."

"An' Colin found him a doctor, did he nae?" Maeve replied gently, while reminding herself that Rosanna was new to this side of life as a Glenanne; that she had been raised far away from the fight and she needed not only reassurance but guidance too.

"Did I ever tell ya about tha first time me Patrick, God rest ham, came home a bloody mess, an' Am nae talkin' about after a Saturday night punch-up?"

"No, I-"

"It wa' December tha twelfth, 1956, an' I wa' just a wee bit younger than yarself," Maeve began her tale. "I remember it like it wa' yesterday, Patrick had gone off ta Armagh as part of a brigade sent ta bomb Gough barracks... Well, thar wa' nae a one o' tham who'd done anythin' thot big befer an', as ya can guess, they made a right fool o' thamselves. Befer they could plant thar bomb, they'd been spotted an' driven off by tha soldier boys... It wa' two o' clock in tha morning when tha back door o' tha pharmacy below whar we lived wa' kicked down an' they carried Patrick inside. He'd been shot in tha back. Tha bullet, thank God, had gone all tha way through."

She paused to take a sip of her tea, steadying her nerves. Even half a century later, the memory of that night still gave her chills.

"Now, I coulda fallen ta pieces an' let me husband bleed ta death and leave me babby wit'out a father. But I dinnae do thot. I cleaned out thot wound an' stitched him up tha same way I'd a darned a hole in a sock. It warn't easy and it made me sick ta me stomach. But I did it cuz it needed ta be done." Her blue green eyes took on a steely glint as she gazed at her daughter-in-law. "Ya cannae fall apart, sweetheart... Ya have ta trust thot those boys o' mine know whot thar doin'."

Rosanna swallowed down the last of her tea and placed the cup back down the table with a shaky hand. "But, whot if –?"

"Ya cannae have a doubt in yar head... Ya cannae worry about whot if's. Ya have ta trust thot Liam knows whot he is doin', thot Sean is coming back and thot he'll be fine."

"And whot about Fiona and Michael? Whot if -"

Maeve raised her hand in a sharp gesture, cutting off the younger woman's words. "Fiona will come ta her senses, she's nae stupid. She'll realize sooner or later thot she's made a terrible mistake... Now, ar' ya ready ta see ta yar children so Belle can take a break?"

Rosie nodded and, with a sigh, got to her feet. "Am not a twit. Thot helicopter thot wa' brought down, thot wa' Fiona's doing... Tha CIA will nae forgive thot."

Maeve smiled indulgently and leaned back in her chair. "Yer nae a twit, Rosie, but yer young... Tha Yanks have as much tied up in tha peace process as any o' us... Jus' like tha Brit Prime Minister, thar be those across tha water thot want ta see thar names go down in history as tha great men who brought peace ta Ireland."

The matriarch of the family stood up as well, having finished her tea also.

"Well, an American spy runnin' off wit' a known IRA member donnae look good whotever way ya cut it. Thar be as many on tha loyalist side who would want ta use thot bit o' information as thar be on tha republican side. It's in no one's interest thot this gets out - fer now. An' by tha time they decide whot ta do about it, Liam will have found them both and we'll have come up wit' a solution. Now, go see ta yar babbies. They'll have been missin' ya."

Once she was on her own, Maeve glanced at her watch. It was after noon and Rosie was right. Seamus should have arrived by now. Pursing her lips, she looked towards the window.

_She wouldnae worry_..._ Seamus would've called if thar wa' trouble._

**()()()()()**

They came across the clearing late in the afternoon, at the base of a very steep incline where the trees thinned out under the shade of the rising mountain. There was running water from a little stream which trickled down on its way to feed into the River Suir further downhill and plenty of cover provided by a variety of bushes.

Without a word, they both let their backpacks down to the ground while they took a good look around. Michael gestured with his head towards the bubbling brook and then knelt down and took first a small slip and then a large gulp of the fresh, clear water.

"We can keep watch from up there, it's a natural snipers perch." he said, straightening up and pointing up to a ledge approximately twenty feet up the slope. The redhead nodded and then dubiously joined him in what turned out to be a surprisingly refreshing drink of the cool liquid.

"And, see those boulders..." He gestured with a wave of his arm to where several large rocks rested half buried into the ground. "I'll set up our shelter over there. Those big rocks will give us plenty of cover and help keep out any drafts."

They worked as a team, Fiona searching the nearby area for any dry wood she could find to build a fire while Michael built another shelter. Faster than she anticipated, they were settled under the branches and bracken that would make them nearly invisible come night fall and a small fire was burning in its own little pit next to the outcropping that kept them hidden from prying eyes.

The ex-Ranger stirred their supper, a concoction of tinned beef stew, the mushrooms he had picked and some wild garlic he had found growing along the way. As much as she hated to admit it, the smell arising from the metal pan of the one lone mess kit they shared was enticing and her traitorous stomach rumbled in anticipation.

He grinned at her and decided that was comment enough. He really didn't want to set her temper off again. He was sore enough already without getting smacked on the account of some hormone-fueled mood swing.

"Alright, Michael, ya war right," she groused. "Ar' ya happy now? Thot's twice in one day."

Wisely, he let that remark go as well and held aloft a spoonful of the stew for her to try. After blowing on it cautiously, the redhead tried a mouthful and swallowed, blinking as the hot food slid down her throat.

"We can make this out of rabbit or squirrel if we have to later. It'll be just as good. Even rattle snake would work if there were any around."

Fiona shuddered and looked at him as if he had two heads. "Ya eat those bloody things? How can ya? Thar poisonous, ar' they nae?"

He laughed lightly and offered her another bite before taking one of his own. "Only the business end is poisonous. The meat's actually good, especially on the bigger ones. Tastes like chicken."

"Lucky fer me, thar's nae such a thing in these woods. Whar d'ya learn ta do all this, Michael?"

Fiona might have grown up on a farm and been quite the tomboy in her youth, but camping and backpacking was never part of her upbringing and the last nigh on twenty years had been spent in either engaging in guerrilla warfare in urban environments or traipsing around the world on the arm of the one of the most powerful and dangerous gun runners in all of Europe.

The dark haired man bit his lip for a moment and bought some time by feeding both of them another serving or two of their tasty meal. "I was, um..."

"Oh, fer heaven's sake, Michael, I donnae want tha details o' yar classified missions. Can ya nae tell me anythin' about yar life?"

He shrugged and smiled apologetically. "Sorry, habit, you know? The less you know, the less you can be... I learned in the military. I was in special forces for three years."

"Thar, thot wa' nae so hard, wa' it?" The Irishwoman leaned over and kissed him on his bristly cheek. Taking the spoon from his hand, she took a few bites herself and then offered the next two to him. "And d'ya ever make yarself rattlesnake stew fer dinner?"

"More than once and more than once before I joined up..." Michael laughed. "They were all over in the woods back then. Nate was terrified going into..."

His thoughts seemed to drift away for a minute.

"Go on," she urged. "Ya know all about me brudders, tell me about yars."

"Um..." He hedged and her lover was clearly uncomfortable. "There's a reason I left home at 17 with a change a clothes and $50 bucks and went into the military. I'm not very close to my family."

"oh..." Fiona was clearly baffled by this concept. She could be furious with her family, but until she had run away with her lover, the youngest living Glenanne would never have considered cutting ties with her siblings. She bit her lip and started to choke back the budding tears.

"Fi... What's wrong?" He shuffled closer, the food abandoned. "Please, don't be upset with me."

She gulped back the sob that was building. "Tis nae ya. Ya war talking about... well, nae talking about yar brother..." She gave him a watery smile. "I'm just worried about Sean. I donnae-"

He scooped her up into a tight embrace, as tight as he could manage given his magnitude of his multiple injuries. "He'll be fine, Fi. Liam was there. He'll be fine, I'm sure."

"Yer right... I know, yer right," she sniffed. Fiona had always refused to worry; it was a waste of time and energy, but now she couldn't seem to stop herself from being overwhelmed with concern.

"Here," Michael said, drawing her attention to his hand. He was holding a couple of mint leaves.

His beloved smiled softly now, opening her mouth. He popped the leaf onto her waiting tongue.

The former operative chewed a few seconds before leaning in to kiss her tenderly. They embraced and kissed under the gathering gloom for several moments before they broke apart on a mutual sigh. Then he pressed his lips to her forehead lightly.

"He's going to be alright, Fi, we're going to be alright. Finish up the stew and I'll take first watch."

"Only if ya promise ta come an' sleep when I get up."

Michael kissed her again lightly. "I promise."

**()()()()()**

A sleek shiny black motorcycle roared along the narrow winding country lanes, ridden by a figure dressed all in black, from the tinted visor on his full face crash helmet through his jacket, pants, boots and gloves, even the bulky rucksack on his back was of the same sober color.

The high-performance machine only slowed when the rider sat up and followed the signs off the road and into the one of the many car parks and picnic areas which surrounded the Slieveamon Mountain.

Coming to a stop, the biker planted one booted foot on the ground and lifted up the wind screen on his helmet before carefully scanning his surroundings. Only when he was satisfied that he was alone did he switch off the motorcycle's engine and flick down the kick stand.

With a sigh, he pulled off his gloves and then removed the head gear, running his hand through his short dirty blond hair while his deep blue eyes settled on the only other vehicle in sight, a Land Rover Discovery, which looked exactly like the one in the surveillance photographs he had studied earlier in the day.

Leaving the crash helmet balanced on the motorcycle's tank, the man dismounted from the hot machine and cautiously approached the large SUV.

Peering inside, he noted bloodstains on the passenger side dashboard and seat and the abandoned clothing and survival equipment discarded on the back seat and in the back cargo area.

Squatting down by the left-hand door, he ran his fingertips lightly over the imprints of two sets of boots, one small, child-size or a small adult, and the other set larger, man-sized indents. Standing up again, he followed the tracks to where they exited the car park and continued into the wilderness.

With his focus on the tree line running the length of the horizon, he unzipped his black leather and reached inside to pull out a cell phone.

"Hey, it's me," he spoke as soon as his call was answered, his accent placing him as a native of somewhere in the north-eastern region of the United States. "Your intel was good. The vehicle is here. You might want to send a team out to retrieve it. There's blood inside, so somebody got hurt. I'm going to follow the tracks, see if I can catch up to the target. I'll call in at twenty hundred."

Ending the call, the well-built man tucked the cell back inside his jacket and then returned to the motorbike and the hard plastic case strapped to the pillion seat. Undoing the straps, he opened the lid of the case to reveal a striped down hunting rifle.

Taking each part in turn, he had the weapon assembled and ready to use in under two minutes and then, without a backward glance, he set off, his eyes fixed on the small indentations, which told him he was on the trail of the rogue spy he had been ordered to bring in or neutralize.

Based on the intel he had on the target, the man had a feeling it was going to be the latter.

And that was just fine with him.


	13. Chapter 13

_**A/N: **____Sorry to keep you all waiting a week, but we have a long chapter as a thank you all for your continued support. We're hoping to have the next chapter of ____Life with Larry____ out before the end of the month, but we'll let you know. _

___Now, back to our story...W_hile Michael and Fiona were moving deeper into the forest of the Slieveamon Mountains with a mysterious stranger giving chase and the Glenanne clan was anxiously awaiting the return of Sean and Seamus, the various forces aligned against our lovers continued in their pursuit of the couple as well as their own numerous concerns on that same day.

**()()()()()()()()**

**BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL**

**Chapter Thirteen**

Abishuly Nazarbayev**, **code name Charlie, was used to getting what he wanted. As a smuggler, a purveyor of black market goods and a well-connected man with a network of contacts on both sides of the law, he had powerful friends, and also powerful enemies, which went with the territory.

But if he could not obtain his desires through his normal channels of commerce, his cousin, the man who had been the elected leader of Kazakhstan since its breakaway from the collapsing Soviet Union, could usually help him attain what he was after one way or another. Their relationship was one of mutual advantage as well as a blood kinship.

The raven haired man with somewhat Asiatic and slightly Slavic blend of features which were common to his people stood at the doorway of his well-appointed bedroom in his ducha outside of Moscow and basked in the glow of finally getting what he had wanted for the past three years. The acquisition had been made all the more gratifying because of the wait he decided, throwing back the contents of a cut glass tumbler full of Snow Queen vodka, brewed in his native land far way to the south and imported for his own personal use.

He had known her name wasn't really Tatiana Samoilova when she'd told him that as they had met on the dance floor at Utopia, the night club being her preferred place to do business. Since most high dollar escorts took stage names, "Charlie," as the woman had named _him_, was hardly bothered by her use of a semi-famous Russian actress as her nom de guerre. Over the years, however, Nazarbayev had come to learn there were other things about the beautiful blonde call girl and master thief that were not as they had been presented, especially regarding the dark haired criminal mastermind in the Russian Mafia that she allegedly worked for when she wasn't working for him.

So, when the not-quite hysterical woman had arrived at his secure and secret getaway in the Russian countryside near dawn, he hadn't been surprised to see the slender brunette sans the blonde wig, heavy make-up and tight clothing that were her alter ego's trademark. The older man had seen her without her disguise before, albeit recently. Based on her disappearance from _CEH Manezh _not quite a week ago and her panicked phone call very late last night, he was fairly certain that she would arrive without much more than the clothes on her back and what she'd grabbed in a hurry.

After having her escorted into his inner sanctum, her tall toned host had refilled her glass with the cold clear mother's milk of his homeland several times before offering his exhausted guest to his own bed with the reassurance that she would be safe and he would be there to watch over her.

And so he had. Now as Abishuly Nazarbayev walked slowly into his room and sat on the foot of his thick mattress, the movement roused the occupant to wakefulness. Her chocolate-colored eyes flew open and momentarily filled with panic until she finally focused fully on the figure seated on the edge of the mattress. He gave her a warm assuring smile.

"Charlie," she said his name on a sigh of relief and took another moment to gather her thoughts.

"I would tell you good morning, but it is almost noon already," the large muscular man chuckled.

The dazed woman sat up slowly, trying to shift the clothing she had slept in back into place. "Is it that late already?" she asked, looking around the room at the light pouring through the gauzy coverings on the tall windows. "I'm sorry I called you so late. I just didn't know what else to—"

"No matter, любимая," he interrupted. "I am pleased that you chose to call me instead of your other…um, how shall I say it? _employer_ …in your time of trouble. Tell me, Tatiana, where is mysterious man that you said you _work_ for? Where is this _haramzade_ hiding for last two years?"

His most welcome visitor stared at her entwined fingers for a long moment. "I don't know. That's part of why I'm here," she admitted reluctantly, refusing to meet his eyes.

"So, you have come to me for answers?" he asked, putting a sizable hand under her chin and tilting her face up until her brown orbs met his intense black ones. The master thief nodded wordlessly.

"You disappear in middle of job, snatched off streets by armed men in van, and yet they do not bother to take diamonds that you stole for me. I am pleased that they did not, but now I am curious about this and I am concerned for you. There are men watching your apartments in Volvograd and St. Petersburg. But they do more than _watch_ your penthouse in Moscow, da?"

The brunette swallowed thickly at this additional unwelcome news, unable to take her gaze from his dark penetrating stare. His hand slipped from under her jaw to cup her cheek.

"You have come to me for more than answers, have you not, Tatiana Samoilova? Or do you prefer I call you by your English name, Samantha Keyes?"

"Oh," the woman replied, obviously not knowing how to address this turn of events.

"Yes, I know you are. I know who you were, Zlata Galinevna Mezentseva, daughter of prima ballerina who used her тайный агент husband's connections to immigrate to England when you were twenty two. Your family has moved on to Chicago in United States now, da? I think it is from your mother that you get flexibility that makes you such talented thief and it was your father's connections that once made you safe to ply your trade in your homeland. But it was not enough to safeguard you from American CIA, was it, любимая?"

Her mouth fell open momentarily before she closed it forcefully.

"You are playing dangerous game with powerful people," Charlie informed her bluntly, taking her firmly by the shoulders now. "You require protection if you want to live long enough to benefit from answers you seek."

That powerful man pulled her towards him, their faces inches apart. The sight of her, the sound of her short breaths and the scent of the woman he had wanted from the day he had met her filled his senses.

Nazarbayev had the command and the clout to _take_ what he desired and so what he _truly_ craved was for the faux femme fatale he held firmly in his hands to surrender to him of her own free will.

"I _protect _what is _mine_ and I am _not_ in habit of _sharing_." He was so close to her, he could almost taste her gasp on his tongue and then the Kazahstani released her so abruptly that the brunette fell back onto the bed. Her startled expression told him that she would consider his words carefully.

"You should clean up before we eat," he instructed her calmly as he stood up. "You will find all you could need in bathroom and plenty new things for you to wear in closet. Then we will talk again."

Reaching the door, he smiled once more, his look raking over the feminine form entangled in his silk sheets, imagining her there without her rumbled clothing before closing the door behind him.

()()()()()()()()()()

Richard Chambers sat behind his antique walnut desk in his small office up on the third floor of the parliament buildings, slowly making his way through the stacks of documents waiting for his personal attention. _Why had Michael Westen chosen this particular week to go rogue? The warning signs had been there for the last two months..._

_Actually it had been far longer than that. The alarms should have gone off when that Glenanne woman discovered her lover's true identity. Westen should have silenced his asset there and then._

_But instead he had found a way to regain her lost trust and even managed to talk his way back into her bed._ All these thoughts flew about inside his head, getting in the way of the very important work he should be giving his whole and complete attention. _Bloody bleeding heart Americans,_ Chambers groused internally, snorting derisively as he recalled hearing about Westen's request to bring his asset out of Ireland with him when he left. _That would have been the end of it had it been up to him._

In a few days time, the next round of talks would begin in the peace process and the MI6 officer had more than enough to do without trying to keep the lid on the news that there was a rogue CIA agent, formerly employed by his department no less, running amok in the Irish countryside along with his republican paramilitary girlfriend, blowing up helicopters and burning down houses.

Chambers narrowed his eyes as he read through the file before him, this one an emergency dispatch from an asset based in northwestern Spain, a stronghold of the Basque Separatist movement, the ETA, and one of the main smuggling routes for both guns and people between Ireland and Europe.

Flicking through the pages of intelligence brief, Chambers felt a headache beginning to build behind his eyes. A one time member of the Real IRA and a notorious troublemaker, a man on the top of all the watch lists for potential for disturbing the peace process, was suspected of planning an imminent return to Ireland.

The older man turned his attention to the photographs clipped to the front page of the folder. One showed Thomas O'Neill in a bar handing money over to a known forger, another of him in conversation with a union representative outside the docks at Bilbao.

Sighing, the MI6 officer pushed the file away and leaned back in his chair.

_Why now? What had he done to deserve this?_ First, Westen and Glenanne and now O'Neill and all within days of the what could be another explosive meeting of all sides involved in making the Good Friday Agreement a reality.

A month ago, the Sinn Fein contingent had been ejected from the talks after the PIRA claimed responsibility for the shooting of two men in Belfast the previous weekend. That action had sparked several days of protests and rioting on the streets outside Stormont and then two weeks ago when the republican party had been allowed back in, several members from the loyalist side had stormed out in protest, but not before accusing the remaining delegates of pandering to a bunch of terrorists.

This would be the first time that all parties would be back in attendance since that debacle, though with all the old feelings of suspicion and hatred still running high there was no telling how long the peace would last. _Was O'Neill's return a sign of the re-emergence of the RIRA?_

Slapping a hand down on his desk top, the MI6 officer reached for his phone. He needed to find out what was so important that it had a hooligan like Thomas O'Neill coming out from his hole. But just as his hand landed on the receiver, the telephone began to ring.

"Yes?" he snapped at his secretary, who should have been shielding him from any unwanted calls or visitors while he was trying to work.

"I have Mr. Card on line one."

_Tom Card..._ Chambers clenched his jaw. Along with all of his own problems, he had been fielding phone calls for the last twenty four hours from the Home Secretary's office and Chief of MI6 regarding an American helicopter loaded with top secret equipment which had supposedly crashed into a derelict farmhouse in southeastern Ireland.

With a silent prayer that the PIA CIA officer wasn't about to hit him with another round of bad news, he informed his secretary. "Put him through, Caroline."

"Chambers, I have news on the search for Westen."

"You've found him?" the older man sat up a little straighter.

"Not exactly, we've located the vehicle Westen used to escape and I have my best man out there—-"

"_Your_ best man?" As far as the Englishman was concerned, there was only one man authorized to operate in the field. "Mason Gilroy is a -"

"Mason Gilroy was a damn loose cannon who thought it was a good idea to try and take on Westen and all the Glenannes on his own, leaving his support team out of the loop. No, Chambers, _your_ man Gilroy is out! I've already told him thanks, but no thanks, and if he expects a check to send his bill to MI6. I have a top flight agent already read in, who won't be taking risks just to feed his ego."

Chambers stiffened at the arrogant American's words, his face glowed red in anger as he spoke tightly through his teeth. "Let me remind _you_, Mr. Card, _we_ brought Westen in, _we_ had him sat in a holding cell until _you_ came along and, against _my_ advice, allowed him to return to that Irish _bitch._"

He heard the man on the other end of the call suck in a deep breath. "I had no way of knowing that Michael would run off. There is nothing in his dossier, nothing during his training, which explains his present behavior. But I'll tell you what I do know, Michael and Ms. Glenanne will not be a problem for much longer. The man I have sent out is an expert tracker. He was a Force Recon Marine sniper and one of the best men I have ever trained. Now, let me get on with my job."

Before the Englishman could reply, the arrogant bastard had ended the conversation and it was only then that he noticed the young man standing patiently on the the other side of his desk.

"Connors?" he acknowledged the intruder in a cold flat tone.

"Er, Sir, um..." the young man hesitated as his superior continued to glower at him.

"Spit it out, Connors," the senior intelligence officer commanded. The youngster was twenty two years old, fresh out of Cambridge University and, as far as Chambers was concerned, had only been given this assignment because his father was one of the Prime Minister's chief advisers.

"We have brought in fifteen known Red Hand commandos and twenty five UVF volunteers... Reverend Paisley has already begun to make noises about the _"unlawful arrests and playing to the republicans cause_"... With Real IRA numbers so low and their leadership scattered, the analysts have declared they pose no threat; _however,_ we have already started rounding up known PIRA supporters... Er...Tactical wants to know...um, well, under the circumstances, what actions do you want taken regarding the Glenannes?"

"They're all in the south, leave them alone."

"We have intelligence that places... er... Colin Glenanne at his-"

"Leave them alone, _all_ of them... For now. I have something else for you to look into." He handed the young agent the O'Neill file. "Find out all you can about this man and why he is trying to return to Ireland... Oh and Connors, I don't know what you told Caroline to gain entrance to my office unannounced, but don't do it again."

Having sent the operative on his way, Chambers leaned back and stared up at the high vaulted ceiling. _He needed a holiday or at least a pay rise for dealing with this._

**()()()()()**

"_Thar's a white van comin' down tha lane."_ The words crackling through the radio came from the look-out positioned on the roof of Maeve Glenanne's home. _"It's slowing down... Jamie, can ya ID tha driver yet?_"

The voice continued as Davy Doyle, the man Liam had left in charge of his family's security, snatched up his MP5 machine gun in one hand and the radio in the other before sprinting out of the small side room which had been turned into his office towards the front door.

"Davy, whot is it?" Maeve appeared in the hallway causing the younger man to skid to a stop. The long hours of inactivity, mixed with the stress of dealing with a houseful of anxious women, had left the head of Glenanne clan's personal bodyguard feeling increasingly jumpy.

"Missus, I need ta -"

"_Thar's one man up front. I cannae make ham out yet. Can I get some fecking back up out har?" _The stressed sounds of the guard at the front gate interrupted the explanation.

"Er, it's…um, probably nuttin' Missus." Davy barred his teeth in what was supposed to be a reassuring smile as he edged towards the front door. "But, just in case mind you, it might be best if ya stayed back har while we deal wit' it."

The elderly woman paled and nodded solemnly, before rushing towards the living room where the children were playing, while he flung open the heavy re-enforced door, just in time to catch sight of the rest of those on guard duty armed to the teeth and charging along the driveway towards the gate, ready to deal with whatever the threat might be.

Then, as fast as the crisis had occurred, it was over as the shout went up, "Tis Seamus!"

This was followed by the group of heavily armed men falling back to allow the van to clear the gates and continue along the driveway, surrounded now by what now amounted to an honor guard.

"Jamie, ya can lock tha gates; wa're not expectin' anyone else," Davy ordered as the van came to a stop. Moving swiftly, Liam's chief enforcer opened the driver's side door and locked eyes with the man inside. "Ya scared tha shit outta us, man. Whot took ya so long? Yar mammy an' Rosie have been goin' spare."

"Ah, ya wouldnae believe me if I told ya," the younger Irishman climbed out and hauled the sliding side door open. "A tire blew and then-"

"Sean! Sean! Oh, Jayzuz! Whot happened ta ya?" Seamus explanation was cut off as Rosanna pushed by him so she could climb into the back of the van. The blonde, having only eyes for her wounded husband, dropped down into the back of the vehicle to stroke the sleeping man's cheek.

"We war worried sick, Seamus. Whar have ya been all this time?" she demanded, turning her eyes on her brother-in-law who was in the process of calmly lighting up a cigarette.

"Ahh, everythin' is alright, Rosie darlin'. Tis nuttin' but a little nick and he'll be as right as rain in a coupla days. I tell ya, it looks worse than -" The family gunrunner fell silent as his mother joined his sister-in-law inside the van.

The older woman took a moment to check over her youngest son, tenderly combing her fingers through his tousled sandy hair while her eyes skimmed over the heavy bandage and sling holding the limb firmly against his body. Only when she was satisfied with his condition did she turn her blue green eyes to her third born offspring. After slowly looking him up and down, the matriarch of the clan turned to the rest of men standing around gawking.

"Whot's up wit' tha lotta ya? Get me boy inside an' inta his bed... Rosie, get outta tha way so they can do thar job. Come help me pull tha covers back on tha bed an' I see wa're gonna need an IV pole. I think I still have one in tha utility room... Davy, be a good boy an go find it fer me. If it is nae thar then have a look in tha broom closet. It might be in thar."

Davy hurried away, happy to leave Seamus to face his family's ire. He had been on the verge of putting a call through to Liam himself to let his boss know his brothers were MIA when the white van had been spotted. Crossing over the threshold back into the house, he was greeted by the sight of most of Seamus' brood in the hallway and heading for the front door.

"Hey, whot d'ya think yer up ta? Yer not meant ta be out har an' ya know it." He opened his arms wide and chivvied the younger members of the family back into the large living room just in time, as the heavy wooden door swung open again.

"We wanna see our Uncle Sean," Maggie pouted

"Why can't we see ham, Uncle Davy? Has Uncle Sean had his arm cut off?" Pat had to know.

"Will he have ta have a hook like a pirate?" the bloodthirsty twins demanded.

Little Milo spoke around the thumb that was firmly wedged in his mouth. "Whar's me daddy? I wanna see me daddy."

Ignoring the little ones questions, he made sure they were all back where they were supposed to be with the door to the room firmly shut to shield them from the sight of their unconscious uncle being carried inside.

"Pat, hey lad, come o'er har now." He called the oldest boy to his side and looked him in the eye. "Yar uncle will be fine, but he needs peace an' quiet. Ya understand me, Patrick? So, ya keep 'em all quiet an' outta tha way."

"I understand, sur, but will we be able ta see ham soon?" The twelve year old shrugged his shoulders and tried to act unconcerned. "Ya know, ta keep tha young 'uns fram frettin'."

"Am sure yar da will be down ta see ya all soon, see whot he has ta say. Nar, I have me own job ta do. Would nae want ta keep tha Missus waitin'. So go put on a video or sommit an' I'll bring ya'all some cake or some chocolate when I'm done."

Continuing on his way through the house, Davy made his way through the kitchen and out into the utility room to begin the search for an IV stand amongst all the various bits and bobs that Maeve had chosen to keep over the years, but had never had the time to find a home for.

As he searched, he listened the muted sounds from above. He couldn't actually make out any of the words, but he guessed somewhere up there Seamus Glenanne was facing the wrath of the women of the house. A blown tire seemed like a reasonable excuse to the bodyguard, but he knew that it would hold no sway with the womenfolk. _Tha man should've known enough ta call in at least._

It was typical of the Glenanne family. They spoke their minds and dealt with any disagreements immediately and usually at full volume. But then in a heartbeat whatever had caused all the discord would be forgotten and life would return to normal.

He had been Liam's friend since primary school, way back when the family had lived above Patrick Glenanne's pharmacy on the Falls Road and even managed to stay friends when the family had moved out to a large rambling farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Everybody had thought Patrick had made the move to escape the growing violence, but Davy could remember going to stay there during the summer holidays and watching the patriarch of the family making bombs in the cellar under the house.

Thinking back to those days brought back bitter thoughts of the last week. He'd seen first-hand what Fiona's betrayal had done to her brother and, in the last twenty four hours, how much it had hurt the rest of the family.

Having found the IV stand, Mr. Doyle carefully pulled the pole free from all the boxes and bags which had hidden it from sight and headed towards the stairs.

Once Seamus had had a chance to catch up on his sleep, Davy decided it would be time to take a quick trip home to his own wife and kids. Liam had been furious the last time they talked, which was never good thing. Now with both the Brits and the Yanks on the warpath after losing a helicopter and its crew, it was time to send his own family away on an extended holiday.

**()()()()()**

Fiona smiled up into her lover's blue eyes as he gently maneuvered her into the shelter, his lips brushing softly against hers while his fingers reached round behind her to unzip the sleeping bag before easing her down onto the bottom layer of the padded cotton cocoon.

"Ya'll wake me in a few hours?" She cupped his whiskery cheek, her thumb tracing a line along his bottom lip. Neither the full beard nor the mottled bruising from his battle with the English assassin could hide the tiredness etched into his features.

"I said I would, didn't I?" He cracked a smile and drew her legs across his lap. His large hands stroking down her her thighs and calves before surprising her by unlacing her boots.

"Michael?" This was an unexpected turn of events. She had fully expected her tightly wound, hyper vigilant lover to insist on them both staying fully clothed for the foreseeable future.

"Your feet are wet... Do you know what happens to your feet if you don't look after them?" The dark haired man kept his head bowed as he concentrated on the task of removing first one boot and then the other. "When I was in Bolivia, it rained the whole time we were there. I got some of the nastiest -" Michael suddenly looked up as he caught himself, halting his speech.

"Tha nastiest? Oh, ya cannae be leaving me ta guess tha rest o' thot sentence," she teased.

"Blisters, nasty infected blisters." The ex-military man looked into her eyes and then, in a swift move, whipped off one of her socks and then the other, exposing her toes to the cool night air. "There were times when I would have killed for a pair of dry socks."

He produced a rolled up pair of black woolen socks from his jacket pocket, holding the ball out to her. "These are the only ones I could find in the bags. You should have them. I'm used to dealing with it and I'll wash your old ones in the stream and dry them near the fire."

As romantic gestures went, being given a pair of socks was about as low down on the scale as it was possible to get to. It brought back memories of buying socks, scarves or gloves as Christmas or birthday presents for her father and older brothers as a small child. But it had obviously been significant to him, so she would take the offering in the spirit given.

"Thank you," she said, smiling softly as as she took the gift from him. Leaning forward, the redhead kissed her scruffy man on his wiry cheek and then on his lips.

"You, ah, you have to take care of yourself."

"So do you," Fiona answered, her mouth now inches from his ear, her hot breath on his neck.

"I will, I promise." The Irishwoman felt the hitch in his breathing and then he was up on his feet, taking a step back from the shelter, the intimate moment gone in a flash. "You, ah, you need to rest... I'm...er... I'm going to wash up the pan at the stream and then make a sweep of the perimeter." Michael pointed to the sniper perch he had spotted earlier. "Then I'll... um, I'll be up there... then."

Pulling on the socks and followed by her boots, Ms. Glenanne left the laces undone and settled down into the sleeping bag. Laying on her side, the weary woman rested her head on her arm and let her eyes close. A short nap was all she needed, Fiona told herself, and then she would let her dark haired lover catch up on the sleep he so obviously needed.

**()()()()()**

"Is thar no one else?" Liam spoke into his phone, his pale blue eyes fixed on the tumbledown trailer parked up on a piece of wasteland on the outskirts of Kilarney.

"Ya said ya wanted tha best an' Jack Hennessy is supposed ta be it. He supplies half tha restaurants along tha east coast wit' a prime venison an' game birds," Colin replied.

"He better be bloody good," the eldest muttered darkly.

"I can keep lookin' if ya want."

He hated using outsiders, especially in anything that involved the family. But it seemed he was being given no choice in the matter. He just hoped the tracker he was about to approach was as skilled at his trade as the surgeon his younger brother had found to patch up Sean's arm.

"Ferget about it, I'll use ham... Any more news on tha car they wa' usin'?"

"Not since it wa' reported in tha car park near Cooloran."

"Okay, brudder, I'll go talk ta tha pikey." Ending the call in his usual blunt manner, the head of the clan stepped off the pavement, past the burnt out shell of an old car and onto the barren ground.

As soon as Liam got within twenty yards of the trailer, a large skinny dog flew towards him barking loud enough to wake the dead. Showing no fear, the Irishman ignored the animal and continued towards his goal, only coming to a stop when the trailer door opened and a thin gangly unshaven older gent with a head of unbrushed grey hair limped outside.

"Jack Hennessy?" Liam eyed the dirty chipped cast which covered the man's right leg from ankle to thigh.

"Whose askin'?" the fellow squinted as he cleaned the lens of wire rimmed spectacles on his thick green jumper.

"Me name's Liam Glenanne."

"Glenanne…. I've head thot name befer." With his glasses back in place, he blinked several times at the figure before him. "Whot can I be doin' fer ya, Mister Glenanne?"

"I wa' given yar name. I have need o' a tracker. I've lost someone close ta me an' I believe thar in tha Sleiveamon Mountains, probably in tha woods thot surround it. But I can see yer nae up ta tha task, so I'll be on me way." He wasn't sorry that the man would be unable to help him out. Like many in Ireland, he had no time for the tinkers who lived on the edge of society.

"An' how much had ya been willin' ta pay fer me invaluable services?"

Liam paused and looked over his shoulder. "Thot donnae matter, now does it?"

"It might, sur. Ya see, I know o' someone as near as good as me. Maybe even better an' fer the right price -" The older man's eyes glinted with mischief as he left the sentence hanging.

Liam sighed heavily. He needed somebody who could find metaphorical needle in a haystack. He had the location of the Land Rover used by Fiona and he also knew there was no sign of either his sister or her boyfriend nearby.

"Whot d'ya consider would be tha right price?"

He had no choice, not if he wanted to find his sister before the CIA got their hands on her. Colin had somehow managed to remotely turn on the microphone in the cell phone belonging to one of the CIA operatives working in the US Embassy in Dublin. But he hadn't only taken over control of the microphone, turning it into a bug, he had also downloaded all the information from the phone: call logs, contact lists and everything else the agent had chosen to store on the device.

"_I dunno why I never thought o' doin' this befer... But am certainly gonna be doin' it again," Colin had gloated at his success at finding a new way to gather valuable intelligence._

"Fifty fer tha introduction an' oh, I don't know how about a hundred a day?"

"Ya can have tha fifty." Liam walked back to face the old man. "But ya donnae get it until I've _after_ tha introduction an' only then if yar friend is as good as yer say. As fer tha rest, ya can tell 'em I'll pay three hundred. But fer thot, I expect ta find who Am lookin' fer."

The elderly tinker paused, clearly thinking about it. "Make it a monkey an' ya have yar self a deal."

"A monkey?" Liam took a step back, shaking his head. "Ya want _five _hundred? Ya can have three fifty an not a penny more."

"Four hundred and I swear, sur, you'll have yar lost one back wit ya in a day or two at most. Robin can track a bird in flight or a fish in tha river. Ya won't be sorry."

"Me last offer, three seventy five an' a fifty quid bonus if wa're successful." Liam knew if he had agreed to the hundred punts a day, the gypsy would have arranged for his friend to have him trailing around the woods for a week or more. A fixed fee would give this _Robin_ person the incentive to do the job as quickly as possible.

"Deal!" The old man grinned toothlessly and stuck out his hand.

After shaking the tracker's hand, Liam retreated back to his car to await the arrival of the old fellow's friend. He had no wish to enter the broken down trailer and he knew he wouldn't be welcome inside anyway.

Settling down in the front seat of the Mazda 626 coupe he had bought for cash while waiting for Colin to find him a lead on where their sister had run off to, the Irishman let his head fall back against the head rest and closed his eyes. Over the last few days, he'd hardly had any sleep and until he had Fiona back where she belonged, he doubted that he would be doing more than taking catnaps.

_The retired surgical consultant hadn't been happy when two men covered in blood had burst through the his kitchen door in the early evening, one of them brandishing an AR15 in one hand while half supporting, half carrying with the other. _

_However, once he had calmed down enough for Liam to explain to him that, in return for one nights work and the promise to never mention what occurred to a living soul, the fifteen thousand punts he owed to a rather unsavory bookmaker would be cleared. _

_He had with a shaking hand directed his unwelcome guests through to what turned out to be a formal dining room. With Sean laid out on the finely crafted table top, the surgeon had dug out his bag of equipment and, with Liam's assistance, set about repairing the damage done by a nine millimeter bullet tearing through muscle, bone and ligaments._

The operation had taken far longer than Liam had been comfortable with and the amount of blood his little brother had lost had filled him with dread. But luckily Seamus, who was the same blood type as his younger sibling, had arrived in the early hours of the morning and, even though he was close to exhaustion, he had rolled up his sleeve to help out his injured brother.

Sitting up abruptly, Liam rubbed at his eyes. Falling asleep in a car parked on the public road was a mistake which could get him killed. Turning on the radio, he began to think about what he had planned for Michael Westen when he ever got his hands on the man.

**()()()()()**

Though it was only a little after six in the evening up in the foothills of the Sleiveamon Mountains, the sky had already turned dark and there was a distinct chill in the air. After finishing their meal of beef stew and under Michael's gentle urging, Fiona had caved into the fatigue which was fast becoming a regular part of her new found status as a mother to be.

While his lover settled down wrapped up inside her sleeping bag in the shelter he had constructed only a couple of hours earlier, Michael cleaned the mess kit using water from the nearby stream, threw some more wood into the fire pit and then, after picking up Fiona's Hecate II sniper rifle, took a slow walk around the perimeter of their camp. Stepping lightly the former spy and Army Ranger moved between the trees, making sure there was no sign of an enemy lurking nearby before climbing up the steep slope to the natural perch he had spotted earlier.

With nothing to do but listen to the sounds of the nocturnal denizens of the forest beginning to stir and watch the gentle sway of the branches of the trees, the ex-operative was finding it hard to stay focused. Fiona had insisted that he take a couple of their limited supply of painkillers. But over the counter Paracetamol and Ibruprofen had so far had little effect on his damaged ribs and sitting in one position on the damp ground was doing nothing to ease his aches and pains either.

The fight back at the farmhouse had been the toughest bout of hand to hand combat he had faced in years. Shifting slightly in an attempt to find a more comfortable position, Michael grimaced and rubbed a hand over his swollen left knee and then rotated his right shoulder. The English assassin had been a tough sonuvabitch. In the end shooting him had been the only way to neutralize the threat he posed. It had been an even longer since he had shot an enemy in the back.

The man who had once been the Terror of Russia blinked and swiped a hand over his eyes. He had made himself a promise, after Chechyna and again after Vedeno, that he would keep the black part of his soul which allowed him to act without mercy securely locked away. The dark haired man still had nightmares about both places, one where he had stood back while his partner systematically slaughtered a whole family, including women and children, and the second where he even surpassed his mentor's expectations when, in order to neutralize one man, he blew up an entire factory full of people, condemning those who had survived the initial blast to a terrible death in the smoke and the flames.

"_Ah, it happened, Kid. Don't beat yourself up about it. You wait, these are gonna be our glory days,"_ had been the senior agent's words when they had been recalled to explain their actions in the Slovenian foothills.

He threw his head back and stared up at the pitch black sky. He didn't want to think about Vedeno and he definitely didn't want to waste his time on Larry Sizemore. The man was – no, _had been -_ a special kind of monster. But he was dead now, killed nearly three years ago in the same explosion that had left Agent Westen requiring major surgery and an extended stay in ICU. However, that part of his life was over for good. His world had suddenly gotten a lot smaller and given him a whole new set of priorities.

Slowly relaxing, Michael managed a half smile as he turned his gaze down the slope to three large boulders which stood like sentries surrounding the shelter where his lover safely rested.

"_Love nothing, and nothing you love can be used against you. It's a hard way to live, son, keeping the world at a distance but believe me it's for the best." _Tom Card's voice came to him out of nowhere, the words from a long ago lecture regarding the sacrifices a successful field agent had to make in order to operate in the field.

_But what the hell did he know?_ Card had a wife _and_ an ex-wife with kids included, though the details were nebulous. Then again, that probably had everything to do with the fact that someone Card's age was already stuck as a training officer. So maybe the older man did know what he was talking about when it came to familes and success at the Agency.

_That man_ had come to him, pleading with him to see sense. Forcing him to face up to the fact that a gunrunning, paramilitary girlfriend wasn't going to help his long term career prospects with the Company.

He firmly believed there was certain people in life that you get stuck with, whether you love them, they drive you nuts or both. They mold you into the person you become. For most of his friends it was a coach, a favorite teacher or, in some cases, the leader of one of the local the street gangs.

But for him it had at first been Captain Donald Novak, his commanding officer when he joined the Ranger's and then later when he signed up to be a spy, it had been his training officer, Tom Card... The man who had ordered him drug his asset and abandon her had now brought in a paid assassin to kill him and his pregnant girlfriend.

A shudder ran down his spine when he thought about how close had he come to following his training officer's orders to give Fiona that sleeping draught. He swiped at his eyes again... _How close had he come to poisoning their child?_

_Their child..._He had been doing his best not to think about the prospect of being responsible for a small defenseless baby. Michael didn't have a clue on how to raise a child and he only had to look into Fiona's eyes to see she was just as afraid as he was. Neither one of them wanted to bring up the subject of how they were going to cope.

The eldest Westen supposed it was up to him to decide what sort of man he wanted his child to be stuck with as a father. He was the one who got to make the choices that his offspring would get to live with.

A movement in the trees suddenly caught his attention, instantly snapping him back into the present. In one smooth move, he raised the sniper rifle and stared through the scope in an effort to locate who or what was creeping toward their camp.

With his heart hammering away in his chest, the dark haired man patiently followed disturbance in the branches to track the approaching menace. As soon as he could see a target he was going to shoot, his finger slipped inside the guard, wrapping around the trigger. Making a conscious effort, the elite sniper slowed his breathing as he prepared to defend the woman sleeping peacefully below his position.

The bushes parted close to where the narrow mountain stream began to widen just a little bit and a small Fallow Deer nervously stepped into view. The former spy's finger twitched and then came completely off the trigger. The deer was unmistakably a pregnant doe and, as she began to drink from the babbling brook, more of her kind came to join her.

Michael watched entranced as the herd of fifteen animals, most of them pregnant females, drank their fill and then slowly drifted off amongst trees, making their downhill towards the open meadows and pasture beyond the forest. A sudden urge to go and see for himself that Fiona was fine overwhelmed him. He didn't understand it, but he couldn't fight it either. Perhaps the analogy of what he'd just seen was enough to send him circling about.

Taking another series of deliberate deep breaths, the ex-Army Ranger rose from his position and forced himself to make another perimeter check before going to see the new center of his universe with his own eyes.

As he approached and knelt down by her side, Fiona didn't stir. The woman he knew was a notorious light sleeper. Normally she would have had a gun in his face before he got within ten feet of her. It was further evidence that there was something very different about his Irish lover that registered in his brain. _She really was pregnant, she was going to have their baby. _

He knew that reality intellectually, but it was starting to find a place in his heart and that scared him, shook him to his core, because he just couldn't get her to safety soon enough. Michael swept back the stray hair covering her face and leaned down to kiss her cheek, praying that the old Fiona wouldn't return that instant and erupt into violence. But she slept on undisturbed, which both gratified and terrified him.

He had always been was more comfortable keeping watch by night and resting during the day, even before he entered into the service of his country. So he did just that, letting her get the rest she needed, although he knew he couldn't keep staying up all night and walking all day indefinitely. However, Michael was afraid to risk staying in one place for too long. The CIA and the Glenanne brothers would both be redoubling their efforts after what had occurred at the cottage.

Falling back on his training, Michael took one more look at the slumbering form of his beloved and then moved back towards his perch, preparing to keep watch through the night for anyone seeking to do them harm while Fiona slept.

()()()()()

He had found their camp, or at least the remains of it. They had been gone for well over twelve hours. The dismantled remains of a shelter, along with the scattered ashes of a small fire, was all he needed as proof he was on the right trail. Squatting down, the hunter examined the broken branches which had formed structure, recognizing the design.

Westen was a former Ranger, skilled in unconventional warfare. His target had seen action in South America and in parts of the Middle East before joining the CIA and becoming what could only be described as a living legend, cutting a bloody path through most of Eastern Europe and Russia with his partner, Larry Sizemore.

Standing up, the blonde followed the signs to where the couple had left the camp, making their way deeper into the forest. The tracks were indistinct and hard to read, especially in the deep darkness. He paused, pursing his lips as he thought through his options.

Exhaling deeply, the former marine turned back. There was no tactical advantage in chasing after Westen in the dark, so he would wait until daylight. Checking the time on his cell phone display, he saw it was nearly eight o clock, almost time to call in and report his progress. Carefully resting his rifle against a nearby tree, the well-muscled man shrugged off his back pack and began to prepare for a night out in the open.

At exactly twenty hundred hours, the specialist got out his phone again and keyed in the number to his boss' private line.

"It's me."

"You're one minute late," his former training officer scolded. "Now, give me some good news?"

"I've found where they camped last night. I'm going to stop here until first light and then get back onto the trail."

"You can't be more than what… Ten hours behind? Tell me, what's the point of me getting you all that _very_ expensive equipment if you're not going to use it? I'm not paying you by the hour, sport."

"You wanted me for this job because of my experience; I'm telling you going after Westen at night would be a mistake." He paused, waiting for Card to respond. But there was only silence, so he took a breath and continued. "I read that dossier you gave me from front to back. I also saw the report on what happened to the first guy you sent after him."

"That was not _my_ idea. That's why _you're_ here… to get the job done, not go camping in Ireland on Uncle Sam's dime."

"I can do this, but it has to be done my way."

"Fine, but just remember this little assignment is time sensitive. I need Westen back here or eliminated before he can cause any more trouble for our hosts. Call me back _when_ you have him."

"I could end this a lot quicker and cleaner if you had gotten me the Barrett sniper rifle I requested."

"This has to look like a dispute between Michael McBride and the Glenanne clan and, as there are no reports of _any_ of them using an M82A1 SASR to settle an argument. You'll just have to be satisfied with what you've been given. Improvise, adapt, overcome," his superior sniped.

The former marine sighed heavily. "I'll catch up to them tomorrow or the day after. I'll call you then."

"Remember, we don't want to stir up any more trouble. That prissy Brit Chambers already has his panties in a bunch. So, try to keep any collateral damage to the minimum. Can you do that?"

"Sure."

"Good, you can go now. I've got a truck load of evidence to go through from the last attempt to bring Westen in. Try to make sure _you_ don't come back in little pieces."

With the call over, the ex-military man set about making himself comfortable for the night. He was used to sleeping outside and living off nothing but the land, or worse yet MREs. So within an hour, he was wrapped up in his sleeping bag under a hastily put together shelter. Tomorrow the hunt would begin in earnest.

The pair was a clear threat to the security of both the UK and USA. He had joined the armed forces and later the Agency to protect his nation from people like them. Glenanne was a terrorist from a family of terrorists and, with the situation on the ground in Ireland as volatile as it was, Westen was not only on the verge of causing _yet another_ international incident, but the man was undermining the entire intelligence establishment. He and his PIRA affiliated girlfriend had _killed_ CIA agents.

_Well, that was not going to happen again. Not on his watch…. _


End file.
